


negative space

by CallicoKitten



Series: Larrikin [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Cullen Rutherford, Companion Hawke, Multi, Pining, Sex Addiction, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2018-10-29 11:52:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10853439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallicoKitten/pseuds/CallicoKitten
Summary: Larrikin Hawke returns to Skyhold a month or so after he left. He must have ridden hard to Weisshupt, stayed only a day or so. Cullen spots him cresting the mountain path out of his arched tower window, finds himself less surprised than he probably should be.-Hawke as companion fic, mostly to torture commander cullen





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i fell hard for my latest hawke, even more so when i got to make him in inquisition so i started writing him a smutty epic i guess?

Larrikin Hawke returns to Skyhold a month or so after he left. He must have ridden hard to Weisshupt, stayed only a day or so. Cullen spots him cresting the mountain path out of his arched tower window, finds himself less surprised than he probably should be.

He finds the Inquisitor in the courtyard, sparring with Sera and Krem and Blackwall. They are trying to get their fighters to be more adept at spotting rogues in the field. Cullen usually avoids having Sera and the Inquisitor in the ring at the same time, together they are woefully unproductive. Today, it seems, is no exception.

Maeve Trevelyan runs rings around the warriors, effortlessly graceful, tossing blunted daggers that find their mark between armour plates and shields. She is there one moment, gone the next in a puff of inky black smoke, leaving laughter in her wake. Sera chases after her, has forgone her bow entirely. There is a stain on the red of her top, dark and sticky; by the way she yells after Trevelyan, it's clear it was not put there by accident.

"Oh, you think you're so cute with your glowing herald thingy and your knives," Sera shouts, shimmering out of existance. Her voice carries, "Well, I've got news for you; I've had a lot more practise at this than you have, _Lady_ Trevelyan."

There is a thud and the rogues appear, Trevelyan sprawled on the muddy ground, Sera looking smug sat astride her. "Told yah," the elf grins, bends down and kisses Trevelyan on the nose.

Trevelyan scowls, Blackwall smiles. Krem has either at some point been knocked down or has given up because he too is sprawled on the floor, arms outstretched. "Let me know when they're done being mushy," he calls.

"Might take a while, pretty boy," Sera says. "It's not every day I get to pin her ladyship to the ground."

Trevelyan laughs, grabs Sera's hips, "If you wanted to be on top, Sera, you could have just asked."

"Pfft, where's the fun in that? We don't ask, Inquisitor, we _take._ "

Cullen clears his throat.

Once, Trevelyan would have sprung up, cheeks flushed while Sera rolled her eyes but by inches, Trevelyan has grown in confidence, has grown in how comfortable she is with them seeing her as both Trevelyan the Herald, Trevelyan the Inquisitor and Trevelyan the woman. Now, Trevelyan does not shift Sera off of her, only tilts her head back to peer up at Cullen awkwardly, "Commander," she grins, breathless still. "Did you need something."

"No, no, nothing urgent. I just thought you would like to know, I spotted Hawke earlier, it seems he is returning to us."

Trevelyan pats Sera's thighs, stands as the elf moves of her and brushes herself down, the beginnings of a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Why would he return so soon? Do you think he brings bad news?"

Cullen hopes not. There have been rumours, whispers on the wind of a Blight beginning in the Anderfels, Hawke may bring them proof.

"If he is not, why would he return?" Trevelyan wonders.

Too late Cullen recalls that he had not told anyone about his last conversation with Hawke, about his invitation. He flushes a little at the memory. It had been _ill advised,_ the product of ale and triumph and the long journey back from the Approach. "I may have asked him," Cullen admits.

Trevelyan narrows her eyes.

"He could be useful," Cullen says. "His name still carries clout with mages, they see him as a hero, it might be a good way of earning back their trust after siding with the templars."

"True," Trevelyan allows. "And it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye on him. But still, don't go around extending invitations on my behalf, Commander. I am, after all, in charge." She is smiling but Cullen knows she is only half joking.

She reaches up, undoes the ribbon tying back her hair and lets it fall in soft curls about her face. "Have someone inform me when Serah Hawke arrives."

Cullen inclines his head, "Inquisitor."

-

Cullen's feelings about Hawke are complicated.

Much of his time in Kirkwall now feels like a hazy dream, a choking nightmare. Abominations, red lyrium, mages and templars and qunari pressed together in narrow streets and sea air, second guessing everyone. In the cool and space of Skyhold, with the day-to-day of troops and training, it all seems very far away.

He had not thought he would see Hawke again, not after that last day, the city ablaze, blood -  so much blood - on the floor of the Gallows. Hawke crouching, defensive, staff in hand shielding that apostate from everyone involved.

He told Hawke to run and so Hawke had.

He tells the men stationed at the gate to send a messenger to him in addition to the Inquisitor when Hawke arrives, the men incline their heads, do not question it and why should they? Cullen returns to his desk to look over reports, to review the spread of their troops, tries not to think about the feel of ashy hair between his fingers.

The messenger comes, tells him Hawke has arrived, has been sent to the Inquisitor, leaves when Cullen thanks him. There is no reason Cullen can fathom that he would be required to great Hawke. He will go if he is summoned if not, he is sure Hawke will seek him out if that is his will.

-

He works long in to the night, they are still building their power, trying to gain influence, the Winter Ball is approaching. A scout appears in his doorway, tells him that Sister Nightingale has asked for him.

He takes the stone walkway over to the castle, pads through the library and up to the rookery. The castle is quiet but for the flutter of wings and harsh laughter of Leliana's birds. She is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, blue eyes sharp in the darkness.

There is no point in hiding from her, she reads him easily as a book, his secrets and shames laid bare beneath her cool gaze. She was there in Kinloch, passed through Kirkwall, probably knows and has known for some time of his involvement with Hawke in all the grisly details.

Maker. He would take on the full force of Trevelyan's inner circle over Leliana.

"Commander," she greets, smiling prettily.

"Leliana."

"I trust you have been made aware of our latest arrival," she says and yes, she knows full well that he is aware Hawke has arrived, probably knows that Cullen was the one who heralded his arrival. "Cassandra wants a close eye kept on him but I think he will prove a valuable asset."

She turns and crosses to her desk, bends across the map spread across it. "What I'm really interested in though, is tracking down the rest of Hawke's friends. The Tevinter elf, Isabela of the Raiders, Guard Captain Aveline. All of them could be useful but if we could locate the apostate who destroyed Kirkwall's chantry..."

Cullen sighs. "With respect, Leliana, why are you telling _me_ this?"

Leliana glances up at him. "You know each other, do you not?"

"So is Varric," Cullen points out.

"If Varric was going to tell us he would have before now." Leliana smiles. "It is not urgent, Commander. But it may prove useful, do you not agree?"

Cullen sets his jaw.


	2. Chapter 2

It is a few days before Hawke comes to find him. Cullen finds him sprawled in his bed, Maker knows how long he's been there while Cullen worked below.

"You know," he says, in lieu of a greeting. "I heard your Ambassador talking to some dwarves today about replacing all the windows in Skyhold. I'm sure if you asked nicely, they would fix your roof."

Cullen sighs. "I don't want my roof fixed."

Hawke sits up, "Is this some strange new form of masochism I'm unaware of? I thought I had the market cornered in that regard."

He looks exhausted. He's wearing the same ratty pair of robes he was when he left, the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, there's a new gash scabbed over on his cheek. He spreads his hands, still wearing the fingerless gauntlets he favoured in Kirkwall, "Well, I came back."

This, Cullen thinks, _this_ is why he did not seek Hawke out.

In Kirkwall, Hawke swaggered, Hawke sauntered, Hawke ran back and forth across the city saving mages and elves and Maker knows who else with his merry band of followers and Cullen watched, equal parts irritated and envious as Hawke smirked his way through life. 

Now he just looks tired, worn out, stretched thin.

In Kirkwall, all Cullen had wanted was to wipe that smug grin off the Champion's face. Now he wants it back, wants that look of hopelessness gone.

He wonders what Hawke sees when he looks at Cullen, wonders if it's similar. Cullen hasn't been the leashed little templar he was in Kirkwall for a long time, he feels freer these days, freer than he ever has. Hawke looks more tethered.

"I'm glad," Cullen says.

Hawke hums.

Something hovers between them in the air, thick and suffocating. There are a hundred things Cullen wants to say, a thousand missives he could scrawl and press into Hawke's calloused hands. Apologies and pledges and _it will be alrights_ but also warnings and regrets and bitterness.

It was a mistake last time. A mistake.

By the way Hawke eyes him cautiously, it was a mistake for him as well.

"I - " Cullen begins but Hawke holds up a hand.

"Don't worry, Knight-Captain. I'm not here for your virtue. I just got tired of people whispering about me or throwing themselves at my feet. You know how it is." He stands, stretches. There's an empty bottle of rotgut gripped loosely between his fingers.

"See you around," he says.

-

Trevelyan sends Hawke out on a few small missions in the coming weeks. For the first few he's accompanied by Varric and a small platoon of scouts, just in case, Trevelyan says. Hawke is not a prisoner but it benefits them to know where he is, to keep him within sight. They don't need him starting anymore wars, after all.

Varric is prickly about it, says Hawke doesn't need this, he's been through enough.

"We've _all_ been through enough," Trevelyan says, clipped tones and hard eyes. "This is the only thing we can do to make sure we don't go through more.  Hawke's a big boy, Varric, he wouldn't be here if he didn't want to."

Varric glares at her. "He's here because he thinks he owes you people something. Maker knows why, though."

"He _did_ start a war between mages and templars," Sera points out. "Might be something to make up for but hey, what do I know?"

Varric sets his jaw, looks to Cullen like he'll have something to say in Hawke's defence.

"The Inquisitor is right," Cullen says. "Hawke was not made to return and since he's here, we may as well make use of it."

"Don't worry, Varric," Trevelyan says, voice softer now. "I won't send him anywhere too dangerous and besides, he's probably safer here than on the run."

Varric sighs.

"And he's not a prisoner," she goes on. "He's free to come and go as he pleases."

Varric laughs at that, "Come on, Knives, if you're going to lie to me, you'll have to do better than that."

He leaves, Cullen follows. "It is true what Trevelyan says, you know," he says, falling into step beside the dwarf. "Hawke is free to leave if he wishes it."

Varric hums, "With a few of Leliana's scouts trailing him, no doubt. I should never have dragged him into this mess."

"He was involved anyway," Cullen says evenly. "At least now he has a chance to redeem himself."

"Redeem himself? He has nothing to redeem himself for! He had no more idea of Blondie's plan than you did, Curly! You think that was easy for him? Defending him from everyone only to have it all _literally_ blow up in his face?" He stops, shakes his head. "Should have killed him myself," he mutters.

Cullen stops too, looks down at Varric, surprised. "Would you have?"

After a few moments, Varric deflates. "No. Blondie was - I don't know. Would have saved me a lot of grief though."

"Hawke would have killed you," Cullen points out.

"Yeah," Varric agrees.

-

For the first month or so, they don't see much of each other. Hawke is seldom at Skyhold and when he is he lounges with Varric by the fire or sleeps in his little room overlooking the gardens. He keeps to himself mostly, Cullen knows, doesn't like the people who look at him like he's wounded more than the people who look at him and wish they could run him through.

They pass each other on occasion, in the grounds or on the ramparts. Hawke smirks, makes a sarcastic comment, Cullen sighs. It's almost like Kirkwall again. Almost.

As spring sets in, Varric comes to Cullen's office.

"I'm heading to the Hinterlands with Knives," he says. "Got some stuff that needs dealing with."

The red lyrium, Cullen remembers. Trevelyan had filled them in at their morning meeting in the war room.

"I need you to keep an eye on Hawke for me."

Cullen sets down his quill. "I'm sure he'll be thrilled to learn that."

Varric smiles, "Don't worry. I don't need you to babysit him, or anything. Just keep an eye out, alright?"

He probably means: _try not to let him drink himself to death in the tavern, or mouth off to the wrong templar._ Cullen sighs. "I'll do what I can."

Varric needn't have bothered though, Trevelyan and her party have barely passed the gates when Hawke appears in Cullen's rooms, strides in through the door and settles himself on the floor near Cullen's bookshelves like he's always been there. He doesn't offer an explanation, even as Cullen stares, Cullen waits a while before he sighs, "Don't you have anywhere better to be?"

Hawke has pulled out one of Cullen's books on troop positions and battle strategy. "Not really," he says, setting it down beside him. He stands up, filthy look in his eye. "Why? Am I _distracting_ you, Knight-Captain?"

Maker, why could Cullen not leave well enough alone?

Cullen looks back down at the letters he's been trying to pen for weeks. They lost many at Adament, families are still being traced. Hawke saunters over to the desk, leans against it, bends in close, "We could do something more fun," he suggests.

He's back to old habits. In Kirkwall, he never made the first move, wanted his victims to crack, to crumble, to be complicit in his corruption. He never put his hands on Cullen until had touched him first. Months ago he had come to Cullen, dropped to his knees, touched him first.

Cullen looks up.

Hawke grins, "Come on, Commander. You know you want to."

And Cullen does. Cullen wants to ball his fists in the front of Hawke's shirt, pull him close, lick the dredges of lyrium from his tongue and take him apart on the hard surface of the desk. Trade in one addiction for another. If he said that out loud Hawke would laugh, lean in close, promise to kill him quicker than the lyrium, promise he'd mess Cullen's head up just as thoroughly.

He knows Hawke too well by this point, scares him a little to admit that.

One of the men knocks on Cullen's door, "Message for you, Commander," he calls.

Hawke steps back.


	3. Chapter 3

Trevelyan returns, rides in through the gates looking tired but accomplished. Beside her, Varric looks grim. Cullen doesn't ask, trusts Trevelyan to fill him in on anything terribly important. She comes to see him later that evening, freshly bathed and wearing a dress of deep crimson. She had flirted with him once or twice before they recruited Sera, smiling at him as her cheeks flushed. Seeing her like this makes him wonder.

Valammar has been cleared, she says, the Carta have been dealt with, one of Corypheus' red lyrium supply lines has been destroyed. They still have the primary source to deal with, still have to reach Emprise du Lion to do so but it is still a victory.

"We got word while we were out there," she says, leaning against his desk. He keeps a map there and she shuffles around in the papers for it, spreads it out when she finds it. "Here," she jabs at the Storm Coast, at an old port. "There's an old dwarven port we think the Red Templars have set up in. Think you could send in some troops to clear a way through?"

"Of course," Cullen says. He has some in the area, lingering in Crestwood in case the dead rise again. "It should only take a day or two to have my men in the area."

Trevelyan smiles and thanks him, tells him there's no hurry, she's two mages down at the moment, Dorian took a Hurlock hammer to the chest and Solas is following up on the promise of elven ruins in the Exalted Plains. He says it's about Corypheus' orb but they both know it's as much for his own gain as it is for the greater good. She doesn't trust Lady Vivienne, doesn't trust her to have her back.

Cullen promises he'll bare that in mind.

-

His men cut a path to the port, Cullen informs the Inquisitor during a war meeting. Dorian is still out of action, Solas is on his way back but it won't be quick. Securing the port, stamping out the Red Templars in the area, would probably secure them enough power to earn an invite to Empress Celene's ball.

"I don't feel comfortable sending you in without a mage," Cullen says. "Lady Vivienne could - "

But Trevelyan shakes her head, "I'll take Hawke."

There is silence then, Cullen looks to Leliana and Josephine, they look to him in turn, look to each other, look back to their Inquisitor. She crosses her arms, "He's capable, isn't he? He's fought Red Templars before?"

Cullen thinks of Meredith, of Hawke falling over and over again, of Hawke getting back up over and over again as Anders healed him.

"He has the skills," Trevelyan goes on. "And if he's staying, we'll have to make use of him some time."

"Take Varric with you," Leliana advises. "It may help keep him check."

-

Cullen watches them ride out, more by chance then on purpose, pauses as he walks the battlements and catches sight of them charging down the mountain path. The morning sun dusts the mountains pink and gold, the kitchens have begun to cook breakfast.

It is quiet until Cole materialises beside him. "He misses him," Cole says. "Misses him more than he can bear. It's loud, very loud." Cole touches his shoulder. Cullen stiffens. "You make it bearable."

Then he's gone.

Why Trevelyan allowed him to stay is anyone's guess.

-

A few days later, Leliana finds him up there, smiles and teases him about worrying too much. She's had word from the scouts, sent reports to Cullen, the port has been cleared and claimed, no one is injured, Hawke is fine. There is no point in lying but Cullen does anyway, brushes her off, tells her it is part of his morning routine to walk the battlements before chaining himself to his desk. She pats his arm, tells him Trevelyan's party should arrive before midday.

She is right, of course. Trevelyan trots in first, Cassandra at her side, Varric and Hawke close behind. They dismount. Hawke is smiling. Not the sad, stretched thin smile he has been wearing since his unwelcome return to Cullen's life, a genuine smile.

He looks up to Cullen's tower, feeling Cullen's gaze on him no doubts, winks salaciously. Beside him Varric rolls his eyes, thumps Hawke on the back. It seems like a scene from years ago, swap in Trevelyan and Cassandra for Guard Captain Aveline and that pirate woman and it may as well have been.

Hawke seeks him out later, wanders in to Cullen's office and sits on his desk. "It would appear, Commander," he says. "That I am to be here for the foreseeable future. So, I think we should probably discuss what it is we have between us."

Cullen does not look up. "Which is?"

Hawke laughs.

Cullen used to dream of that laugh, breathless against his skin, warm and muffled around his cock, used to wake up aching and hard in the barracks and curse himself for his weakness. The sound still goes straight to his midriff, sends heat curling through his gut.

"Tell me to leave," Hawke says.

Cullen does not.

"Why deny yourself, Knight-Captain?" his voice curls into the pit of Cullen's stomach. He said the same thing in the Gallows, leant in close with ale on his breath even though it was barely midday. That was before Anders, Cullen thinks.

_He misses him, misses him more than he can bear._

When Cullen doesn't respond, Hawke shuffles closer, doesn't touch. "You must spend _hours_ going round and round in that pretty little head of yours, _should I fuck Hawke? Shouldn't I? Would that be honourable?_ Think about how much time you'd save if you just _did it._ How much more time you could spend thinking about troops and templars and staving off the lyrium cravings."

If he moves any closer, he'll be in Cullen's lap.

If Cullen were a good man, if he were honourable or just or any of the things he pretended to be he would send Hawke away. They will be bad for each other, have only ever been bad for each other but -

_But -_

He looks up, "If you want to leave, Hawke, leave."

Hawke smiles, "Now you're getting it, Commander."

He doesn't ask, doesn't say anything, just clambers on top of him and presses their mouths together. This is new, this is different. This is Hawke laid bare.

"Come on, Knight-Captain," he says against Cullen's mouth, rolls his hips. "Tell me to leave if you want to." His hands are splayed across Cullen's chest.

Cullen says nothing, grips Hawke's hips instead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know there's only like four of you reading right now so thank you <3
> 
> but also, if you have any opinions on whether i should involve other characters more or if i should stick to cullen and hawke let me know

Sera presses kisses along the inside of her thigh. Maeve sets down the report she's been trying to read for the better part of an hour, heat curling in her belly. "Sera," she warns.

Under the desk, Sera sniggers, nudges Maeve's thighs apart gently. "You've been reading for hours, I'm bored." She trails her fingers up Maeve's legs, soft and playful. Maeve regrets wearing a dress.

Sera's pinkie finger hooks through Maeve's small clothes.

Maeve gives in, sets down the report. She pushes her chair back slightly, leans back so she can peer down at Sera's pretty face while she talks, "I think we should take Hawke with us to the Winter Palace."

Sera makes a face, does not remove her hand. "Well, alright, you're the boss. Might look good in a suit, I suppose. You'll have to talk to him about that blood on his face though. Think the nobles might get upset about it. In fact, a bath wouldn't do him any harm."

Maeve laughs, reaches out to muss Sera's thick blocky hair. She's one to talk about bathing, Sera's always more comfortable in the field, covered in mud and blood and Maker knows what else, is only really interested in baths when they also involve Maeve, which is fine by Maeve really. She's made it a rule, if Sera wants to spend the night in Maeve's bed, she has to bathe at least once a week when they're at Skyhold.

She never really envisioned her life involving sharing her bed with a scruffy elven rogue but then, she never really envisioned her life as really _mattering_ in any sense of the word.

"He's still a hero to many and even those who think he's a war criminal will be thrilled to meet him."

Sera snorts, her breath is warm against Maeve's core. Sera's fingers dance. "Well, that's Orlesians all over, yeah? Man who started a war that ruins lives turns up at your party and you lose your frigging shit."

"He's a good fighter," Maeve says, tilts her head back, cants her hips to give Sera better access. "And at the very least, he'll make a good distraction."

"Yeah, yeah, politics, politics, nobles, nobles, you know he's shagging the Commander, yeah? I think they're trying to be subtle about it but Cullen blushes anytime Hawke so much as _looks_ at him. I hope he's less of a blushing maiden in bed, I dunno though, maybe Hawke likes that pish."

"So you agree?" Maeve asks. "You think he should come?"

Sera sighs, pulls back, crawls out from under the desk and comes around to plonk herself on her Maeve's lap. She curls her hands around Maeve's face, "Yes, Inquisitor, bring Hawke to your fancy ball or don't, whatever. Just don't expect me to play nice for your nobles, yeah? And wear a pretty dress. One that shows off your arse. Now _there's_ a distraction." 

She kisses Maeve soundly, pulls back to whisper, "I know you're Inquisitor and everything but don't forget, you were Maeve first and you'll be Maeve after."

-

Beneath him, Hawke breathes out.

"Gentle," he mutters. "Gentle, gentle, gentle, you're so damn gentle, Commander, so damn gentle, why are you always so damn gentle." But he curls his hands into Cullen's shoulders, tilts his head back with a groan when Cullen thrusts his hips down.

 _Maker_ , this will ruin him.

He presses kisses to Hawke's throat, can't take the lingering tang of lyrium in his mouth, scrapes his teeth along Hawke's pulse-point. Hawke rakes chipped nails down Cullen's back as Cullen works him open with slicked fingers, bites down on Cullen's shoulder as Cullen presses in.

" _Fuck,_ " Hawke breathes, through gritted teeth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Hawke is loud, always loud, like he wants the whole of Thedas to know what they're doing. He raises his hips to meet Cullen's thrusts, Cullen smoothes over the patchwork of scars on Hawke's arms and chests, watches the Champion of Kirkwall fall apart under his hands. Watches Hawke's eyes flutter, the way he whines and curls and uncurls as he comes, spurting between their chests.

Cullen closes his eyes, lets Hawke swallow his moans with a sloppy, desperate kiss as Cullen spills into him. He rolls off of Hawke and takes a moment to steady his breathing. Each time they do this, Hawke lingers longer. He rolls onto his side, props himself up on his elbow and fidgets with Cullen's hair.

"This is ridiculous," he says, winding a curl around his index fingers. "You know this is ridiculous, right?"

Cullen wants to move away but doesn't. "If you're leaving, do it sooner rather than later," he promises.

Hawke makes a noise of mock offence, "Just for that I'll wait until you're just dropping off." He lies back down, sprawls himself across Cullen's chest and tucks his head under Cullen's chin. Cullen reaches up to wind a hand through Hawke's ashy hair, muscle memory nothing more.

He keeps his promise, leaves just as Cullen is beginning to slip into a warm dream.

-

Trevelyan arrives early that morning, dressed in riding leathers and a royal blue jacket, hair piled into a messy bun atop her head. "I am thinking of bringing Hawke with us to the Winter Palace," she begins.

Cullen looks up at her, sets down the mug of tea he has been nursing. There is no reason for her to tell him this, no tactical reason anyway, Trevelyan is always in charge of dictating who accompanies her to where. She is only telling him because she knows, would probably know even if Sera hadn't caught them together once while she was scrabbling across the roof to find a better vantage point for spitting on people she doesn't like. What Trevelyan sees in her he will never know.

Then again, it is not as though he has any higher ground here. When Sera's smirking face appeared and she yelled, "Caught you!" Hawke hadn't even flushed, hadn't sprung away but had held on tight to Cullen and laughed and laughed and laughed, pressed his face into Cullen's shoulder and said, "I _told_ you to fix that hole."

Since Sera knows, everyone knows probably. She seems the type to share things. Yet Cullen still lies, finds it easier and not for the reasons Trevelyan probably thinks.

It is for the plain iron band Hawke still wears on his left hand, the few times he has dozed beside Cullen and awoken murmuring, _Anders, Anders, Anders._ It is for the rage he feels thinking of two fair haired apostates, sleeping pressed together in caves and abandoned shacks, tired and terrified but together, together.

It is for the knowledge that Hawke would not think twice about leaving if Anders called, would kill Cullen with his bare hands if Anders willed it.

So Cullen looks up at Trevelyan and knits his features together in a frown. "Are you sure that's wise?"

Trevelyan shrugs, "He's a good fighter, has more experience than Vivienne and I doubt bringing Solas or Dorian with me would earn me any favours."

"But the man who started a war would?" Cullen probes. Trevelyan likes Hawke, has begun taking him on more and more missions, he is not sure how he feels about this yet.

"He's an oddity, an event. The Orlesians would love it."

And she's right, from what little Cullen has experienced of Orlais, they do seem the type to value infamy and scandal above all else. "I suppose," he agrees.

Trevelyan looks at him curiously, "I only ask because you knew him in Kirkwall. He was quite popular amongst the nobles for a time, was he know?"

Yes, Cullen thinks, yes he was. In a narrow passage in Darktown he had broken Hawke's nose when his teasing went too far, Hawke had kissed him afterwards, mouth bloody, laughing against Cullen's mouth. Cullen had shaken his head, said he didn't see what the rest of the city did in him, didn't understand why they allowed such an open apostate to live freely. Hawke had laughed, he was _charming_ he said.

"Maker knows why," Cullen mutters. "Varric knew him better."

"Varric is biased," Trevelyan says. "If nothing else, he will prove a good distraction."

Cullen inclines his head, "As you say, Inquisitor."

-

The ball is in a few weeks; Trevelyan has business on the Storm Coast. She is training to be a Tempest, there are things she needs. She is taking Bull, Solas and, since Dorian complains too much about the wind and the rain and everything, really, she will be taking Hawke too. Josephine frets, Trevelyan placates, promises they will be back in time for her tailor, in time for any wounds to be sufficiently healed.

Cullen has new recruits to induct; he does not linger to watch them ride out.

They return in the dead of night five days later, Cullen is only aware of this fact because he awakens to Hawke pressed against him, already disrobed beneath the sheets, kissing up Cullen's jaw. Cullen's hands come up to grip his hips instinctively and Hawke laughs, "Eager, Commander?"

His skin tastes salty, he smells of the sea and of damp pine needles. He brings them off between their bodies is quick, precise strokes, flinches when Cullen trails his hands along his left side. Cullen tilts his head to look. A new wound, freshly scarred, runs from Hawke's sternum to Hawke's hip in one slanted motion.

"We ran into some darkspawn," Hawke explains between pressing kisses to Cullen's chest. "Solas had to shove my guts back into me. Bull said it was very impressive."

Cullen closes his eyes. Cannot help but think of Hawke pale and bloody and wide-eyed as Solas' deft hands put him back together. He grips Hawke tighter, tilts Hawke's head up so he can better swallow his moans.

-

He wakes to Hawke to thrashing, Hawke moaning.

His eyes are squeezed shut, his hair damp and curled with sweat. " _Anders_ ," he whimpers. "Anders, please."

Cullen would to kick Hawke from the bed, wake him by tossing him onto the cold, hard floor and pretending Hawke's nightmare has not woken him but he does not. Instead, he pulls Hawke too him, whispers gentling words into his hair until Hawke comes awake with a startled cry.

Cullen expects to be shoved off. Instead, Hawke grips him tightly and shakes.

"It's alright," Cullen says. "It's alright, it's alright, it's alright." When Hawke's breathing begins to steady, Cullen winds a hand through his hair.

"Do you dream about Meredith?" Hawke asks. His voice sounds very small, very young.

"No," Cullen answers, honestly. His dreams are mostly of abominations, of how they happen all at once, skin rippling and bubbling and exploding outwards, the demon cry, the sound of bones breaking and reforming. The scatter of gore they leave in their wake. He dreams of Neria, sweet and bright and her failed harrowing, of Kinloch Hold, of templar recruits swayed and taken. "Do you?"

"Sometimes," Hawke says. “I dream of my mother, mostly," he adds, haltingly. “My mother and my brother and my sister.”

Cullen closes his eyes. He heard of Hawke’s brother’s demise in the Deep Roads, had spoken to Carver Hawke once or twice about joining the Order, he was sorry to hear of it. Of Hawke’s mother, he had the misfortune to witness her grisly end. He had been on patrol by the docks for Meredith, a few green recruits with him, had just told Samson to move along when the Champion and his small party stumbled out of one of the Darktown entrances.

He’d been annoyed, he remembers, his patience worn thin by Meredith’s growing paranoia, anxiety taking root as she cracks and changes. Hawke was a problem, Hawke was a pest. All Cullen wanted was an excuse to haul him off to the Circle and give him one less headache to keep track of. Hawke’s party were carrying a limp figure between them, Cullen drew his sword.

He doesn’t know if Hawke remembers his presence that night, doubts it though. He’d been pale when Cullen approached, white as a sheet and lost looking. They had set down the body gently. In the dim-light, Cullen only saw a woman, stitched together like a patch-work doll. The white haired elf had scowled, “You should let us pass, Templar. You have no idea what’s happening here.”

Varric had stepped away, come up to explain things to him. Hawke had been muttering, “She doesn’t want to be burnt, we burnt Bethany, we burnt Carver. She doesn’t want to be burnt.”

Anders had stood very close to him, one arm around his shoulders, talking very quietly to him. “We won’t burn her, Lark. Don’t worry. I promise, we won’t.”

Cullen remembers being struck by name, had possibly never considered the reality that Hawke _had_ a first name. He didn’t know about the sister though, didn’t even know Hawke had one. He asks without really meaning to and Hawke mumbles, “She died in the Blight, when we were leaving Lothering. There was an ogre…”

Cullen closes his eyes. _Maker._

“Do you have a sister?” Hawke asks.

“Two,” Cullen answers. “And a brother.”

Hawke is quiet for a long while, Cullen assumes he has fallen asleep once more but then, “Tell me about them?”


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, the kitchen staff bring up a pot of tea and a pile of Orlesian pastries. Cullen ignores them while he works, Hawke slides down the ladder and snags one, Cullen’s favourite full of custard and raisins, from the top of the pile. He sits down by the window on the floor and picks out the raisins like a child.

Cullen listens to them pitter-patter across the floorboards. There is no way Hawke can know they are his favourite, he tells himself.

There comes a knock at the door, "Message for you, Ser!"

Cullen glances at Hawke, thinks briefly of asking him to go back up to the bed, to hide there while Cullen pretends he is not bedding the man he would once upon a time have liked to see imprisoned. Hawke does not look back, concentrates on tearing his pastry apart between his fingers, the flakes coating his breaches.

"Enter," Cullen says.

The messenger's gaze slides briefly to Hawke as she approaches the desk but she says nothing, gives nothing. One of Leliana's, Cullen presumes. "Lady Josephine wishes you to know that the tailor has arrived. You and Serah Hawke are to attend a fitting this afternoon."

Hawke makes a face, "Maker's breath, I thought she was _joking_."

From the messenger's expression, it's clear she thought so too.

Cullen inclines his head, "Thank you. Tell the Ambassador we will attend."

The messenger bows low and scurries off. Hawke sighs and slides down the wall a little, stretches out his legs, folds one over the other. Cullen watches him curiously. He does not seem nervous, as such, only slightly irritated, as though the worst thing that could happen to him at a ball is one too many proposals of marriage (and Cullen is certain there will be many.)

They have not spoken of what transpired in Kirkwall, of the rebellion, of the years they spent apart, Cullen trying to stitch things back together, Hawke presumably on the run, never stopping to take a breath, to think. Have not spoken much at all outside of grunts and moans and litanies.

Last night was probably the only time they spoke of anything meaningful.

He has no idea how Hawke feels about the war, Cullen realises. No idea whether he supported Anders' actions in Kirkwall or defended him out of instinct. Cullen tries to imagine it: the one thing he loves more than anything, the last thing he has left, destroying the world, shattering it as a glass on a marbled floor, shards scattering outwards, slashing any in their path. What would have done in Hawke's stead? What would he have done when the clashing of swords and scent of storm magic has faded, when the silence pressed in and all there was the murmur and crackle of flames, charred bones and once-friends promising to hunt you down? He wonders about those long nights Hawke must have faced, pressed against Anders in caves and shacks and open fields, wondering at the monster he loved.

Cullen would like to say he would have been stronger, would have taken a blade to Anders, slotted it neatly between his ribs and never looked back but Hawke dusts his fingers of pastry crumbs and reaches up to scrub at his nose childishly and suddenly Cullen is not so certain.

He thinks of the many angry missives there have been from the Prince of Starkhaven, demanding they arrest Hawke, the grumbles they have heard from nobles across Ferelden and Kirkwall and Oralais. They have not announced officially that the Inquisition is sheltering the Champion of Kirkwall but they cannot exactly hide it.

"Do you not worry that there will be those less welcoming of you than we are?" Cullen asks.

Hawke smiles, "If your Inquisitor wants to walk into the heart of Orlais with the man who inspired a war let her. At least the food will be good."

Cullen thinks suddenly of arriving at the gilded gates of Halamshiral, of finding an armed platoon of Celene's troops waiting for them, ready to take Hawke in to custody. All it would take is a Templar enthusiast amongst the guests, a noble who has lost someone in the Mage-Templar war.

Cullen doesn't say any of this though. Instead he says, "You will have to clean the blood of your nose."

Hawke sighs. "Everyone will see my freckles," he says, despondently.

-

"We have had another message from Sebastian Vael," Maeve says, fiddling with Sera's sash. They have servants to do this, of course, servants to dress them, servants to undress them, it is much like home. In Haven they had no one, Maeve got used to the freedom. Sera finds it hilarious.

Behind them, Cassandra curls her lip. She will not be accompanying them to Celene's ball, Maeve wants her here, needs someone in charge of Skyhold that she trusts. She will be taking her advisors, Sera, Bull and Hawke. Varric and Vivienne are attending of their own volition. Vivienne because she has been invited, Varric because Hawke has asked him to presumably.

Cassandra does not approve of any of those Maeve has chosen to accompany her, least of all the former Champion. If he weren’t being so blunt and demanding, she would probably support Sebastian Vael’s requests but Hawke has proven himself useful, has been relatively well behaved.

"Odious man," Cassandra says and Sera snorts.

"Quite," Maeve agrees. "I wonder if he'll be in attendance."

"I hope so," Sera says. "What I wouldn't give to watch Serah Hawke slam his staff into that pretty face."

Cassandra curls her lip at that too. "I do hope you are not intending to start a brawl on the dance floor," she says, eyeing Sera.

Sera smirks, "Not if no one gives me reason to." Which means _yes, probably_.

"In any case," Cassandra says. "I doubt he will. He is still attempting to annex Kirkwall and Orlesians find Free Marchers quaint. They will not be clamouring to meet with him."

"You hear that?" Sera says, turning in Maeve's arms to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. "They think you're _quaint,_ Lady Trevelyan. Little Marcher girl in her little red suit with her little castle and little army and little glowing hand." She snorts, " _Quaint._ "

Maeve smiles, "Don't forget about the little elven girlfriend."

"Oh, don't you worry," Sera winks. "They won't."

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise.

-

At the Winter Palace, Cullen situates himself beside Leliana and hopes Trevelyan finds the Empress's would-be assassins quickly. He has gathered quite the flock of admirers, much to Leliana's amusement, they titter and gossip about his hair while the Inquisition's Spymaster smirks the same way his sister did when he had his first kiss behind the Chantry as a boy.

Hawke finds it hilarious, swans by with his own crowd of admirers while Trevelyan climbs garden terraces and breaks into libraries. "Not enjoying all the attention, Commander?"

Cullen scowls.

Later, Hawke drags him into a room Cullen is fairly sure they aren't supposed to be in and drops to his knees. There's blood on his cheek, they ran into trouble in the servant's quarters apparently. "We shouldn't," Cullen says, but his fingers are already curling through Hawke's hair.

Hawke smirks, "I'm sure if you shout loud enough _someone_ will come by and rescue you."

" _Maker,_ " Cullen breathes.

Hawke sucks a mark into Cullen's throat before he goes, too high to be hidden by Cullen's collar.

-

Later on, he steps out onto a balcony for some air. Florianne is in custody, Celene's throne is safe. The Inquisition has gathered in the guest wing as the ball winds down, Trevelyan and Sera dance together, too full of wine to care about the erratic circles they twirl in. Bull is dancing with Josephine's sister, lifting her high off the ground as she whoops and Josephine alternates between worrying and gossiping with Leliana about noble's shoes.

Everything is so light and happy, even with such fear in the air. Cullen's head pounds. He closes his eyes in the cool night air, listens to the laughter and music drift out through the windows.

He will be glad to get away from here, back to the relative quiet of Skyhold and his rooms. He has never been one for balls, give him the roar of battle, Maker, give him darkspawn over _this_.

"So, I see my little mark worked." Hawke appears at Cullen's elbow. He reaches up, brushes his fingers against the purpling mark on Cullen's throat. "You have not crept off with some pretty noble."

"Did you think I would?"

"No," Hawke says quietly. His touch lingers. For a moment they stand quietly and Cullen starts to think - but then Hawke's hand drops, grips Cullen's wrist. "Dance with me," he says.

"No," Cullen says, automatically, snatching his wrist back. Hawke is not dissuaded, he makes another grab.

"Come _on_ , Commander, isn't this what all you noble Chantry boys are about? Grand balls and romance?" He secures Cullen in his grip, pulls their bodies together and rearranges Cullen's arms.

"Templars don't dance," Cullen says, cheeks warm.

"Templars don't usually take up with apostates, either," Hawke reminds him. "But who's keeping score anymore." And in the flickering gaslights of the palace, Hawke looks so much lighter, so much younger. His time with the Inquisition has given him some colour back, has chased away much of the gauntness. He looks more the like smirking troublemaker Cullen knew in Kirkwall than the haunted man that joined them months ago.

Cullen lets himself be led.

After a few clumsy steps, Hawke laughs, "So it's not Templars _don't_ dance, it's can't."

"Yes, well I wasn't exactly in the habit of attending balls in Kirkwall," Cullen mutters.

"I can't _imagine_ why," Hawke says. He slows up the pace, leans more heavily against Cullen. It's nice, swaying in the warm glow of the evening, he can almost pretend they don't stand on the precipice of doom, that there isn't years of blood and history between them.

Hawke rests his head on Cullen's shoulder, yawns. "Maker's breath, I'm exhausted. Sera can say what she wants; killing venetori is still a workout."

"If you fall asleep on me I won't be carrying you anywhere," Cullen advises.

Hawke laughs, breath warm against Cullen's skin. His laugh is different this time, gentle, soft. "That's not very gallant of you, Commander, aren't you supposed to sweep me off my feet and carry me to bed?"

Cullen lets his hands slide down Hawke's back to rest on his hips. He tilts his head, rests his cheek against Hawke's hair. "We don't have a bed here," he reminds Hawke. "We were supposed to leave, to camp outside the city."

"A tent works too," Hawke says.

Cullen kisses him softly, wants to press everything he cannot say, cannot even _think_ into Hawke's mouth and never dwell on them again but Hawke kisses back just as gently, just as sweetly, so sweetly Cullen is certain he'll go mad from it. There is a voice in the back of his mind urging him to run; he feels the cool of Hawke's iron band against his skin as their fingers tangle together.

They have stopped dancing, they stand still.

"Well," Lady Vivienne's voice has Cullen springing back from Hawke as though burnt. "Aren't you _sweet_?" Vivienne's smile is cool, dangerous. "I thought I'd let you know that Lady Trevelyan and her party are ready to leave and by that I mean that she and Sera have drunk so much the Iron Bull will be carrying them out to the stables."

She turns on her heel, sweeps back into the palace.

Hawke stands blinking hard, like he's just shaken off a spell of some sort.

There is much Cullen should say but he doesn't, instead he feels the heat rise in his cheeks as he says, "Perhaps we should go, Champion," and follows Vivienne off the balcony.

-

The ride back to Skyhold is quiet, subdued. Half their party had too much wine, too much ale, keep yawning in a manner that has Cullen constantly on edge, waiting for someone to fall asleep at the reigns.

Trevelyan rides beside him for a time, smudgy dark circles under her eyes. She is tired but happy, Cullen knows, as is the rest of their party. Their victory at the Winter Palace was well earned and for now at least, uncomplicated. There was no great loss to accompany it; the Templars over the mages, the Wardens safe but banished, Loghain lost in the Fade while Hawke rides some ways behind them and sings lewd tavern songs with Sera and Bull. His voice carries in the still air.

"Madame de Fer said she saw something rather odd at the Winter Palace," Trevelyan says. She is worrying at her bottom lip, something Cullen has not seen her do since those early days at Haven.

Cullen furrows his brow, he had assumed they all knew. "Oh?" he says.

Trevelyan huffs, looks at him askance.

Cullen looks down at the reins of his mount. "If this is complicating matters for you - " he begins but Trevelyan cuts him off deftly.

"No, no. No complications," she says, sighs. "Only, if you were hoping to keep Hawke a secret it may not be so simple anymore. Leliana says Vivienne is unlikely to _use_ this but I don't know. I never have any idea what she's thinking. She took me to her seamstress once, did you know? When we first got to Skyhold. Next thing I know, she's rearranging my furniture and glaring at me from her balcony."

Cullen smiles faintly. Lady Vivienne has always been unwaveringly polite to him but he does not miss the slight smirk that lingers in her eyes. "She would not stay if she did not believe in your cause," he says, with certainty. "She would not do anything to jeopardise it."

Trevelyan rolls her eyes. "Sera said you would say something like that. It's not _my_ cause I'm worried about."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for the comments <3

At long last, they have enough power and influence to trek across the Frostbacks and liberate Empise du Lion. The Elfsblood river has frozen solid out of season but it provides them with a path up into the mountains. Scout Harding has sent word from Sahrnia.

Trevelyan will be leaving ahead of the main force; she is taking most of her inner circle, Hawke included. Cullen will be following in a week or so, once Trevelyan has sent word. All their intel has suggested that the Emprise is the centre of the red templar's lyrium operation, they are expecting resistance.

Hawke stops by before he leaves, has been tasked by Trevelyan with dropping off the latest reports from Harding. She has taken to doing this, to sending Hawke to him with messages and missives.

Hawke has traded in his scruffy robes for the armour of a battlemage, Trevelyan and Dagna made it specially for him and he wears it with pride. His riding cloak though is the same tattered thing he wore when he first arrived, thin and worn and threadbare. Cullen tuts. "You'll freeze."

He clambers up the ladder to his room, collects his spare winter cloak and brings it back down to shove into Hawke's arms. Hawke stares down at it, then looks back up at Cullen. "Thank you," he says, haltingly.

-

With each step, Cullen is half-certain the ice beneath his horse's hooves but the ice holds, stiff and silent beneath them as they make their way into the mountains. His fingers are ice on the reigns. They make their way through the wreckage of Sahrnia, follow Trevelyan's winding path up through the mountains towards Drakon's Rise.

Scout Harding meets them on the path. "The Inquisitor's already made for the Keep, Commander. Said it would go better with a smaller force."

Cullen would like to say he is surprised. It must show on his face because Scout Harding smiles weakly. "They cut a path through the Templars here _and_ cleared the quarry without the troops," she points out. "And come on, after Adamant and the Winter Palace, this is _nothing._ "

"Adamant was hardly _planned,_ " Cullen mutters. "Who accompanied her?"

"Seeker Pentaghast, Madam Vivienne and Sera," Harding answers. "Hawke, Bull and Varric are picking off the last few stragglers in the quarry. They didn't want to but she insisted."

"And are we expected to simply wait?"

Harding shrugs, "Suppose so."

Cullen huffs as he dismounts, instructs his men to do the same but to be ready to move out at a moment's notice. The forward scouts have already set up tents and built fires but by this point, Cullen has stopped feeling the cold. The snow has been packed tightly by their comings and goings, it's slippery beneath Cullen's boots as he trudges across the camp.

Trevelyan's reports say they have cleared out most of the templars, destroyed their mine but the lyrium lingers, juts out from the frozen ground eerie and red. It sings to Cullen, calls to him sweetly but it's pitch is a fraction too high. He is past the worst of his withdrawal but so close to it, he cannot hope but ache.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Dorian says, from somewhere behind him. At least Cullen is not the only one who has been left behind. "It gives off _heat._ We never noticed that before."

Cullen thinks only of Meredith, red and crystalline in the Gallows, frozen forever.

-

It is a few hours before Hawke's party returns; there has been no word from the Inquisitor. Hawke makes beeline for him across the camp, dumps a bundle of parchment into his lap. "Letters from Samson," he explains, dropping to sit beside Cullen. "Varric says it's the same Samson from Kirkwall."

Cullen begins to shift through the messy scrawl, "It is. I saw him at Haven."

Hawke has drawn his knees up to his chest, placed himself as close to the fire as he can get. He holds his hands out towards the flames, stretches his fingers wide. "I know he wasn't a good man but I didn't think..." he mutters. "He helped a lot of mages get out of Kirkwall."

"Another figure from your colourful life before the Inquisition, Commander?" Dorian asks. Bull sits down beside him, puts a hand on his back. "The Hero of Ferelden, The Champion of Kirkwall and now the lieutenant of an ancient magister darkspawn hell bent on destroying the world. My, my, what a life you must have led."

"You met the Hero?" Hawke asks.

"She was at Kinloch," Cullen explains. "Same as me."

Hawke makes a face, "No, not the same as you."

Dorian leans forwards. Bull huffs. Cullen looks at Hawke. This is always between them, will always be between them, he thinks. He was a templar, Hawke is a mage. Cullen is everything Hawke was taught to fear.

(It didn't seem to matter, the bitter part of Cullen thinks, the part that still remembers the demon's touch twisting and twisting and twisting, it didn't seem to matter when Hawke sought him out and pressed him into shadowed corners in Lowtown and Darktown or out on the Wounded Coast.)

Hawke drops it though, picks at a long dead plant half buried in the snow. "She was my cousin, apparently. On my mother's side. I never met her."

Yes, Cullen remembers now. Solana Amell.

"Loghain spoke about her a lot," Hawke goes on. "I think he would have preferred if I were more like her."

Varric touches Hawke's arm.

It's Bull that breaks the silence after that, fidgeting with his great war maul in his lap. "I don't like this," he grumbles. "We should be helping the boss take the Keep. None of this is worth a damn without her magic hand."

"Sorry, Tiny," Varric says. "We're under orders. No movement until after midnight. Maeve left _me_ in charge after all."

Bull glares at him darkly.

Cullen looks at Dorian.

"I'm afraid he's right," Dorian says. "Trevelyan did leave him in charge."

-

It was well past evening fall by the time the raven arrives from Suledin Keep. Trevelyan's message is brief; they have ousted the demon, a raven has been sent to Skyhold, it is up to them if they wish to remain at the camp until morning or press on but she would be very grateful of any food rations. Apparently the Red Templar food stores have not been well stocked.

Cullen is too on edge to sleep so he stands. It should take a little over than an hour to make the journey up to the Keep if Harding's map is correct, maybe a little more because of the poor visibility. Bull decides he'll come along, wants to pick off any templar stragglers they come across along the way, Dorian decides he can't let Bull and Cullen go alone and Varric decides that since he's in charge, he should come along too. Hawke sighs, says he might as well come along too.

Vivienne meets them at the Keep gates, managing to look regal and composed even surrounded by bloody snow and crumbling walls. The Keep is vast, it will be a useful foothold for the Inquisition in Orlais. Trevelyan has made camp in one a cavernous room meant for storage, far warmer and more sheltered than any of their forward camps.

She greets them, rosy-cheeked from exertion and ale, blood from the templars still spattered across her armour and Cullen thinks briefly of what could have been, of how this would have gone if Cullen had been more receptive of Maeve back in Haven. Those thoughts are dashed quickly though when Sera slings an arm around Maeve's shoulders and presses a kiss to her cheek, "Not bad, Commander, eh?" she says, winking. Maeve giggles.

Cullen smiles, "Not bad indeed."

"Great!" Sera crows, "Let's eat! I'm _starving._ Even that giant out there was starting to look appetising."

"How charming," Vivienne says, from behind them.

-

Most of the men have taken to sharing tents to escape the cold but Cullen hadn't planned on it. He's settling down on his bedroll when Hawke enters, doesn't offer any explanation just says, "Move over," and settles himself down next to Cullen. He's pressed himself up close, warm against Cullen beneath the furs.

"I was sharing with Dorian," he says quietly. "But he's made up with Iron Bull and for _some_ reason they don't want me around."

Cullen smiles in the darkness, shifts a little so Hawke can settle against his chest. Hawke yawns as he does so, tucks his head beneath Cullen's chin. "This alright?" he asks.

Cullen curls an arm about him, "This is fine."

-

They linger in the Emprise, there is much to be done. Cullen puts off returning to Skyhold to focus on scouring the Red Templar camps for any hint of Samson's whereabouts, any hints of weakness.

They have sent for Dagna, Trevelyan reasoning that the opportunity to study the red lyrium infecting the region in the field may prove valuable. Cullen and Hawke and Dorian are to be her vanguard, Trevelyan is taking the rest of her party over the repaired bridge to scout the area.

Dagna is thrilled with all of it, the infected corpses at the Keep, the notes on giants, the mines, the spires of the stuff jutting out of the rock and snow, _thrilled._ She takes samples, makes sketches, runs little experiments she never bothers explaining to them except in little cut off sentence fragments, "Oh, but this is - if this is what I _think_ it is then that means - but _what if_ \- "

They dodge black wolves and templar stragglers, Dorian and Hawke bicker about differing styles of magic, Cullen defends. It is all going well until they come across the behemoth.

They shatter upon death, Dagna has never had a chance to study one up close, she says, darting off towards it before Cullen can grab her. The mages scramble to follow her, Cullen wishes for a moment her were a rogue like Trevelyan, wishes he could through a pinch of powder on the floor and move as a shadow, head her off before the beast sees her but he cannot and it's too late.

The beast roars.

There is only one and a handful of foot soldiers, it should be easy for them but their location is precarious. The snow, the cliffs, they all complicate matters.

Dorian keeps to the edge of things, throws barriers around Dagna faster than they can wear off while Cullen tries to keep the beast's attention on himself so Hawke can throw ice and lightning from his staff. "Dagna!" Cullen roars, "Dagna fall back!"

"In a minute," she shouts. "Almost got it!"

Cullen grits his teeth. "We may not have a minute!"

"We will if you quit yelling!"

It only takes a moment, Cullen's attention is briefly split. A foot soldier charges at Dorian, Dorian is preoccupied with his barrier, Dagna is making her way back to him. Cullen takes his attention off the behemoth for a moment to defend Dorian and that is all the opportunity it needs.

It turns to Hawke, catches him off guard when it swings for him.

Cullen hears Hawke swear as he goes over the edge, hears what he hopes is a barrier spell before there is a distant thudding crunch. Dagna covers her mouth with her hands.

Cullen does not allow himself to feel it yet, there will be time for that when the behemoth is down.


	7. Chapter 7

It would take them over an hour to back track, climb down the mountain path and onto the ice of the river but Dagna has a length of thick, strong rope that will have to do. They lower Cullen down by inches and Cullen desperately wishes they would hurry up.

Hawke is still below him, the faint shimmer of a barrier lingering. Cullen only hopes it was cast in time. There is a faint mist of red haloing out from Hawke's head, blood at the corner of his mouth.

He is scrambling as soon as his boots touch the ice, dropping to his knees and search for any hints of light. Hawke's chest rises and falls, his eyes open when Cullen touches gently, bleary and unfocused, " _Anders_ ," he mumbles.

"Thank the Maker," Cullen says, raises a healing potion to Hawke's lips.

"I'm afraid it will take a lot more than that to get him back on his feet," Dorian says. He must have slid down the rope after Cullen, Dagna hovers at his side. Dorian kneels down, "I'll do what I can but we need to get him to a healer."

"I'm sorry," Dagna says. "I'm sorry, I didn't think - "

Cullen nods, pulls out his crumpled map. The closest camp is a half hours walk. They'll have to carry Hawke.

"We probably shouldn't be moving him like this," Dorian says, when he's done. "But we don't have much choice." He clasps Cullen's shoulder briefly. "Are you alright?"

Cullen brushes him off, "I'm fine." He isn't. _Isn't._ Every time he closes his eyes, even to fucking blink, it's all he sees. The behemoth swings. Hawke falls. And falls and falls and falls.

He bends down, tries to slide his hands under Hawke and life him gently as possible. Hawke still whines, protests weakly, shoves at Cullen's chest. "I know," Cullen says, weakly. "I'm sorry."

"Let me go," Hawke mumbles. "Let me _go_. Anders, _Anders_."

"Don't worry," Dorian says, but he is pale and his voice is tight. "He'll probably pass out from the pain at some point."

-

Hawke does pass out, on and off. Mostly though, he fights Cullen, tries to at least. Cullen has no idea whether Hawke knows where he is, whether he thinks he is back in Kirkwall or before, has no idea whether Hawke even knows his own name.

At the camp, the healer's expression is grim. He will be fine, yes, but it may take some time. Cullen asks that Hawke be brought to his tent there is but a fraction of hesitation in the healers eyes but Cullen is beyond caring. In the tent, Hawke does not wake.

Dorian sits with him for a time then leaves, intending to send a raven to Skyhold and to Trevelyan wherever she may be. There have been reports from the other camps and Sarnia of dragons flying high over head, landing on the far banks of the river. Cullen hopes Trevelyan is not reckless enough to challenge more dragons, not with so much at stake but she is with Sera and Bull, neither of whom are particularly well controlled. Solas may be a calming influence but against the three of them, there is a lot left to be desired.

Dagna peeks in as evening is beginning to fall. "Is he okay?" she asks, quietly.

"He will be," Cullen assures. He is not as angry as he should be with her. She was reckless, yes, but it was reckless to bring her into the field untrained, to not sweep each area thoroughly before letting her loose.

Dagna nods, solemnly. "I'm sorry," she says. "I really am. I'm not used to this, you know? Having other people to watch my back. If it was just me I coulda zipped in there, got what I needed and zipped back out but - I guess I didn't bank on you three coming after me."

Cullen sighs, "That's what we were ordered to do."

"I know," Dagna says. "I know that now. I'm really sorry."

"It's alright," Cullen says, automatically.

"No," Dagna says. "It's not, Commander."

-

Hawke wakes late the next morning, groggy and weak.

"Damned dwarf," he mutters. "Shoulda let the red templar have her."

"You don't mean that," Cullen says. He sits outside his tent, back to Hawke, searching through another box of letters and maps and scraps from the mines.

"I do," Hawke insists.

Cullen leans back, pats his knee.

Varric's already been by, laughed his ass off and told Cullen that if he thinks Hawke's a handful when he's fully functioning, he's in for a _treat._

They're due to ride back to Skyhold tomorrow, Trevelyan has ordered that Hawke is to be bed bound for at least a week. Sera smirks, says she's not sure how Cullen's going to get Hawke up that rickety ladder. She says it quietly, no one's in earshot but Cullen's ears still go red and Sera laughs at him for it.

Hawke is too weak to ride by himself so he rides with Cullen, in front so Cullen can hold him steady. He whines about it, hates it. Hates being so weak. Hates being treated like a child. He falls asleep soon enough though, head tipped back against Cullen's chest. It's -

It's a lot. And Cullen wants to - _Maker knows_. Cullen just wants.

-

By the time Trevelyan returns, Cullen has a location for Samson, knows he's working with Maddox, a tranquil from Kirkwall. "I knew him," Hawke says, faintly. "I want to come."

"No," Cullen tells him, firmly.

Hawke narrows his eyes, opens his mouth to argue. They have been back in Skyhold a few days, Hawke is still weak, still under orders from the healers to take healing draughts at least twice a day. "Climb up and down the ladder twice without needing a break and then you can come," Cullen says.

Hawke shuts his mouth but he holds Cullen's gaze.

-

Samson is gone by the time they reach the Temple, Maddox has set it all ablaze.

"We can't leave him like this," Trevelyan says as Maddox's eyes slide shut. "We should take him from here, give him a proper burial."

Cullen sets a hand on her shoulder lightly, brushes his thumb across the hint of bare skin at the nape of her neck.

"Idiot," Sera says, crossly. "Offed himself before we could even tell him about the cure. Why'd he have to go and do that?"

"It might not be a cure, Sera," Trevelyan reminds her. "Not yet."

Sera crosses her arms, kicks at the ground. "Still," she says. "Bloody stupid _idiot_."

They bury Maddox at Skyhold. Hawke is quiet, leaning more heavily against Cullen than he has done since their return. "I didn't even think," he says as they watch the earth piled on, asks, "What happened to the Tranquil after - after what happened?"

Cullen has an arm around Hawke's shoulders. "It was chaos," he says. "Most died. Some fled. I do not know."

"He was so dedicated," Hawke says, his voice is very soft. "Willing to die to protect the templar that got him made tranquil."

"Probably didn't have much of a choice," Dorian says. He did not know Maddox, did not even come to the Temple of Dumat but he came here anyway, stands on Cullen's other side quietly in the early morning haze. "Samson offered him protection, not something he could do without."

"They were friends," Cullen says. "Before and it wasn't Samson's fault he was made tranquil. It was mine. I told Meredith about the letters Samson was ferrying, I was - " Cullen's voice cracks, sticks in his throat. He didn't know Maddox would be made tranquil, that was a punishment reserved for the most extreme cases, he didn't know, he _didn't_.

Hawke draws away from him.

Dorian sounds disappointed. "You were young," is all he says.

But there is no time to dwell. They have what they need, Samson's weakness. Now all they need is the opportunity and man power to use it.

-

In the interim, Isabela arrives at Skyhold, turns up in the courtyard smirking and Hawke laughs, lifts her off her feet into a hug and twirls her around. "Alright," she says, " _Alright_! Put me down you great mabari!"

She has been working with Leliana for some time now apparently. It is nice, Cullen thinks, to see Hawke smile so. Varric has been away more and more often, an asset for Trevelyan, she has begun sending him on missions alone leaving Cullen as Hawke's only touchpoint in Skyhold.

Isabela makes it clear she is not pleased with Cullen's involvement in Hawke's life, though she admits he is at least more stable, less dangerous than Anders. She promises that if Hawke is hurt she will make him pay, promises with a dagger pressed up to Cullen's throat while Hawke laughs behind her.

Cullen dearly wishes that when Hawke appeared at Skyhold before Adament, he had left well enough alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Cullen wakes to a messenger in his office below. Hawke grumbles sleepily when Cullen shoves him off and slides down the ladder to receive it. The elf speaks quickly, hands Cullen a small scrap of parchment.

Leliana's agents have found the Temple of Mythal, Corypheus is moving on it, Cullen is needed in the War Room.

-

Unusually, they are joined by most of Trevelyan's inner circle for this meeting. Only Dorian, Solas and Varric are absent, having yet to return from a mission in Crestwood. Everyone is tense and quiet.

"I want Morrigan, Solas, Sera and Hawke with me," Trevelyan says, bent over the map of the Arbor Wilds. Her hair is tied back with a single, plain black ribbon.

Cullen glances to Hawke but holds his tongue.

"You'll need a warrior," Cassandra says. She is anxious though she hides it well. "Perhaps two."

"I don't have two," Trevelyan sighs. "There has still been no word on Blackwall?"

"None, Inquisitor," Leliana answers.

Trevelyan stands back, digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. "Then we shall have to make do," she says, going back to the map. "Cassandra, I want you leading our second team as back up. Bull, can Krem lead the Chargers?"

"Wouldn't be much of a second if he couldn't," Bull answers.

"Then you'll be with me. Will we have Orlais' support, Jospehine?"

Josephine nods, "Empress Celene will be sending Chevaliers to support us."

"Good," she stands back from the map once more, looks at them all in turn. Sera takes her hand. "I don't want anyone taking any unnecessary risks," she says. "We need what's in that Temple but none of it will be worth anything if we all die in the Arbor Wilds. Corypheus will still need to be dealt with. So hit hard but only as hard as we need to, got it?"

-

Cullen will be leaving with the main bulk of the troops ahead of Trevelyan and her party. As he readies himself, he watches Hawke spa with some of the Inquisitions mages below the tower. He has regained most of his colour since the Emprise but he is still recovering, still a little slower than he was.

Cullen has held his tongue thus far but when Hawke returns to their rooms, he can be silent no longer. "You should not be joining us on the front lines," he says, as Hawke is setting his staff down.

Hawke exhales very slowly and turns to face him, arms crossed. "The Emprise was weeks ago, I'm fine. And anyway, your Inquisitor has willed it."

"I don't give a damn what she _wills,_ " Cullen snaps and it shocks even him. "That is to say - " he breaks off. Hawke is watching him carefully.

They have entered unfamiliar territory here. Part of Cullen wishes to back off, to turn away and shake his head, let Hawke march off to his dead at the hands of an ancient Magister but - But.

"I - " Cullen begins, shakily. "I would not wish to see you harmed. In the Emprise - I - "

Hawke exhales. He leans more heavily against the wall, eyes downcast and ah, Cullen thinks. This has been a misstep. He should have known. He should have known.

"Hawke," he says.

Hawke shakes his head, "May I tell you something?"

Cullen blinks. "I - yes, of course."

Hawke is silent for a few moments. Then he begins worrying the iron band he wears on his left hand.

"When Anders left we were on the Storm Coast," he pushes off the wall, crosses to the window. "There were these old ruins, dwarven I think, abandoned but for the spiders and deepstalkers. Wardens had come, they were looking for something. Not for Anders but he was - Living on the run all your life changes you, at least I had my family. Anders didn't have anyone before. He'd brought it up before, you know, kept saying if he left that I'd be safe, could probably even go back to Kirkwall if I wanted. I'd talked him out of it before. "

He sighs. Shakes his head.

Cullen hardly dares to breathe, as though the slightest movement will break whatever spell has fallen about Hawke. It's like the balcony on the Winter Palace all over again. The layers have been stripped away. He's speaking with words, not actions.

"I woke up and he was gone," Hawke says when he turns back to Cullen his eyes are downcast, his fists clenched. "I didn't know what to do so I waited. Then I looked. Every day I'd get up and walk the whole fucking area until it got too dark to see because I just wanted - " he breaks off.

Cullen wants to move. Wants to touch him, to hold him close, to make him stop looking so raw, so broken. It's heavy. Heavy, heavy, heavy. Cullen wants to kiss it away, to press against him until there's no room between them, no room for anything else, no thoughts, no memories, no room for any _one_ else.

He wants to make Hawke forget Anders. Forget all about Kirkwall and the rebellion and being on the run.

"I must have spent weeks there, months maybe. I'd stand on the cliffs sometimes and think - " he uncurls his fists, deflates. For a moment, Cullen thinks he's going to fall. "None of it felt worth a damn without Anders."

At long last, he looks up, meets Cullen's gaze. His eyes are damp. "I don't want that again," he starts towards Cullen, steps slow and deliberate. He only stops when he's so close they're practically touching. "Do you understand? I don't want to feel like that again. I don't want anyone to - to be that important to me again."

He reaches out, loops his arms around Cullen's neck and tugs Cullen down towards him, presses their foreheads together. "Do you understand?" he repeats, his eyes closed.

"Yes," Cullen says. "Yes."

"Good." Hawke kisses him then, messy and desperate. " _Fuck me_ ," he breathes, against Cullen's mouth.

Cullen is helpless to deny him. He winds one hand through Hawke's hair, presses their mouths back together. They will not make it up the ladder, not judging by the way Hawke is already panting into Cullen's mouth.

" _Desk,_ " Hawke breathes.

 _Yes,_ Cullen thinks. He begins to walk them backwards towards it, lifts Hawke up by the hips to place him on the surface when they reach it, positions himself between Hawke's legs. There is no oil down here so he raises his fingers to Hawke's lips. Anyone could walk in on them, he knows, but somehow he does not care.

Hawke whines as Cullen works him open, hisses things against Cullen's like _fuck_ and _yes_ and _I love you, I love you._

They won't speak of that afterwards, Cullen knows. He holds back those words as he presses in, as he finishes, face pressed to the crook of Hawke's neck. Bites down on Hawke's shoulder instead.

-

In the morning, Cullen departs. He wakes Hawke with a kiss before he goes and stands on the ramparts beside the Inquisitor in the morning chill. Their breath hangs in the hair around them. The Inquisitor's voice carries in the thin silent air.

Most of Skyhold has turned out to see them off. The troops stand at rapt attention, none of them look sleepy. Cullen is proud of them, so proud.

"We march to strike a blow against our enemy," the Inquisitor says. She is dressed in full armour, daggers strapped to her back. When Cullen leaves, she will probably return to bed but she has made an effort for their men.

When she is done, the troops cheer. Skyhold cheers. Cullen raises his sword, "Inquisition!" he calls. "We march!"

It will be a long walk to the Wilds, Leliana's scouts have gone on ahead to cut a path for them, to set up camps along the way. There is no way they can hide the fact that they are on the move, Coryphaeus will know it, Ferelden and Orlais will know it.

At the end of the bridge, Cullen glances back towards Skyhold. He thinks there is a figure on the ramparts with ashy blonde hair but he is too far away to be sure.

-

Along the way, people join their ranks. Villagers, Dalish wanderers, surface dwarves. Some ask, come to find him with their rusted swords in hand, frayed leather armour strapped to their chests.

Some are veterans of the Blight, of the civil war that almost brought Ferelden to it's knees. Some are green, so green, too green, still full of songs and stories of honour and glory, they all weave the same story: if they are to die, they would have it be on the battlefield, fighting for freedom, for a cause. Cullen does not send anyone away, how can he? If they wish to fight they will not be denied. Only, he wishes it were possible to give them better arms, better armour but their resources are stretched thin. All he can do is hope they do not see much combat, hope they have enough sense to avoid the frontlines.

All he can do is hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been a while. sorry!
> 
> if there's anyone still out there, or anyone new, thank you so, so much for reading. comments are always appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was/is a heatwave in london recently so like any self-respecting vampire i've spent a good amount of time indoors with the curtains closed playing video games and now i'm going to try and finish this if there's anyone still hanging on out there?

In a small tent above the Arbor Wilds, Maeve gathers her party around a mostly useless map. Her mother had been a General once, a damn good one, originally from Ferelden, she had fought in the rebellion against Orlais. When Maeve was little she would sit curled up on her mother’s great bed and listen to her tales about the battles, about how she always dreaded the stifled feeling of the night before more.

Maeve understands that now. It’s suffocating. This indescribable blend of anticipation, fear, hope, like a breath drawn in and never exhaled.

The ride from Skyhold was long and arduous, all of them quiet, wrapped up in their own determination, their own concerns.

She looks around at her followers, her people. They’re a few short. Blackwall is missing, Dorian, Solas and Varric are en route, should arrive within the hour.

“Corypheus and Samson will likely be there,” she says, relaying what Leliana told her earlier. “Our main goal, though, is to get to the eluvian before he does and secure it. No unnecessary risks outside of that, alright? If it comes to a fight, we fight but outside of that…” she sighs. There’s very little chance this won’t end in a fight.

There’s a chance this will all be over tomorrow. It is slight but it is there.

“I want Samson brought in alive if we have the chance,” she glances up at Cullen as she says this. He meets her gaze, jaw tight. “We need all the leverage we can get at this point.”

“Well,” Hawke says, voice quiet. “That should be sufficiently _awkward_.”

Maeve looks up at him. Sera does too, frowning slightly, “What? Why’d it be - ?” At some point she and Hawke must have developed the ability to speak telepathically or maybe there’s just something Maeve is missing because Sera wrinkles her nose, flinches, giggles. “ _Ugh_! You _didn’t_!”

Hawke spreads his hands. “Kirkwall was a dark time for everyone. And besides, he was less… repulsive then than I imagine he is now.”

“Not by much,” Cullen mutters and Sera laughs again, Bull joining her as Vivienne and Cassandra look on in comparable amounts of disgust. Morrigan looks politely intrigued.

Hawke sets his hands on his hips. “Yes, yes. Let’s all have a laugh at the expense of poor Hawke. Har har.” He elbows Cullen. “I thought _you_ were supposed to be on my side here.”

“I am on no one’s side but the Inquisitor’s,” Cullen says, so solemnly that Sera starts to laugh all over again. Hawke laughs too, claps a hand on the Commander’s shoulder and says, “I’d be angry at you if I weren’t so _proud_ right now.”

Cullen’s ears are red and Maeve finds herself smiling. It’s odd for Cullen to speak so openly like this. To Hawke. But since Hawke’s near-death in the Emprise he has been more open.

“Andraste’s arse,” Sera says, falling against her. “I needed that. _We_ needed that.”

“Yes,” Vivienne says, her withering gaze affixed on them all. “And now that it is over, could we get back to the task at hand? I rather think – ”

She is interrupted by a messenger announcing the arrival of Varric and the mages, of Dorian stepping after him, looking about at Sera’s smirk and Cullen’s red face and saying, “Why do I get the feeling that I’ve just missed something of vital importance?”

“We were recounting my past romantic endeavours,” Hawke tells him. “So you did, in fact, miss something important.”

“ _Romantic_?” Cullen repeats.

“Rolls off the tongue more easily than _back alley fucks,_ Commander.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra says. “Inquisitor, _please_.”

“Alright,” Maeve says. “Alright.” But she feels lighter now, steadier. Like maybe they can do this.

-

He kisses Hawke before the battle. They are out in the open now but here, in the close heat of the wilds with his blood already ablaze for the fight, he cares little. He grips Hawke by the jaw, curls an arm around his shoulders to draw him close.

“Come back to me,” he says against Hawke’s lips, presses the words into his mouth.

Hawke laughs lightly. “Maybe if you ask nicely.”

“Larrikin,” Cullen says.

Hawke smiles at that. He is forever trying to get Cullen to use his name, his given name. He pulls back slightly, so their eyes can meet. “Don’t worry, Commander, I have no plans to die today. Not here, anyway. I mean, what kind of end would that be for me? Varric would have to write me a better one.”

Cullen shoves him away gently. “Go. The Inquisitor is waiting.”

“Alright, alright,” Hawke says. He smiles, that old smirk that Cullen loves and hates in equal measure. “Don’t do anything stupid.” And then he’s gone and Cullen turns to take up his position with their troops. He will be leading the charge, clearing a path for Trevelyan and her party. The commander of the troops Celene sent falls into step beside him, Fiona waits a few paces ahead, ready to lead the mages.

He cannot help the excitement that brews within him. This is what he is best at. What he was born for. They will triumph. He is sure of it.

At the signal, he raises his sword.

“For the Inquisition!” he shouts.

-

They wait for hours after Trevelyan and her party vanish into the temple, after the way shuts tight behind them. Cullen is not alone out there. Leliana is with him and Varric and Dorian and Scout Harding and a very cross Sera. She was taken by surprise by a behemoth that knocked the stone plinth she’d been positioned on out from under her.

She bristles when Vivienne and Fiona’s mages offer to heal her, acquiesces when Dorian offers, sits jabbing idly at the ground with what looks like one of Trevelyan’s daggers while Cullen paces and they wait.

“There must be a way to get that thing open,” he says, for what must be the hundredth time that day.

“The men are working on it, Commander,” Dorian says, irritation clear in his tone. “And they have been working on it since you first said that. Now would you _please_ sit down. You’re starting to frighten the children. And by children, I mean _me._ ”

“You can add me to that list too, Curly,” Varric says but he’s nervous too, fiddling with the ring he wears about his neck.

They are all thinking the same thing: it has been too quiet for too long.

“She’ll be fine,” Harding is saying to Sera. “Come _on._ She’s the Inquisitor. And she’s got Seeker Pentaghast and Bull and Ser Hawke… she’ll be fine.”

She has Solas and that strange boy with her too but Harding obviously isn’t enamoured with either of them.

“I don’t give a _shit_ who’s she’s got with her,” Sera says. “ _I_ should be with her. Stupid templar bastard! I should’ve seen it!” She jabs the knife hard enough into the earth this time that she has to tug hard to pull it back out and this time she throws it towards the trees with a frustrated cry.

It narrowly misses Cullen and he swears, turns to scold her when a cry goes up from the men at the gates.

“Commander! We’re through!”

He turns towards them, is about to hurry over when he sees Sera pull herself up and try to do the same. She is still unsteady on her feet, almost falls but catches herself, the bruising on her forehead still visible despite Dorian’s healing spells. He holds out an arm to her, knows there is no point in telling her to stay put.

“Piss off, Commander,” she says, slapping his hand away. She promptly falls over and Leliana moves forwards. “Go, Commander,” she says. “I will tend to Sera.”

Cullen goes.

-

The temple is full of blood and death. Templars, elves with strange armour and markings. A few inquisition scouts that had made it through with Trevelyan but no Inquisitor, none of her companions. They make it all the way through and find nothing. Nothing but Samson weak and unconscious but alive.

Cullen’s chest is tight. His mind ablaze.

 _Captured,_ he thinks. _They have been captured. They must have been, there is no other explanation –_

“Commander!” Harding’s voice cuts through his dizzying panic. “We’ve had a bird from Skyhold! The Inquisitor and her companions arrived a few hours ago. They travelled through the eluvian – or something!”

Cullen closes his eyes. _Thank the Maker._

-

Upon their return to Skyhold, he is decorous enough to see Trevelyan before seeking Hawke out. They debrief in the war room. Celene’s court-mage has gained the power of some ancient elven god, thinks she knows the location of something that will help defeat Corypheus. Trevelyan had been waiting for them at the gates, had hurried forward when she spotted Sera and helped her off her mount despite the elf’s protests.

“Ser Hawke is in his room, Commander,” Trevelyan tells him as they are leaving. “He’s still recovering.”

He took the brunt of Samson’s rage, Cullen heard. Took more than a few serious wounds and so soon after his fall. He wasn’t ready. Cullen had said as much. He shouldn’t have been on the frontlines.

“I’m sorry,” Trevelyan says quietly as they walk and Cullen looks up at her, surprised. “I knew he was still weak after the Emprise but – He is a talented fighter and he fought Corypheus before so I thought…” she shakes her head. “I should not have – ”

“He would not have been left behind,” Cullen interrupts. “Regardless of what you or I said.”

Trevelyan looks at him, expression open. She thinks he is lying out of loyalty, out of a desire to comfort her, that he is hiding his anger at her because he is ever the loyal soldier. “Yes, well,” she says, looking away. “I should track down Sera, make sure she hasn’t made too much of an annoyance of herself.”

She speeds up before Cullen can think to say anything and disappears out of Josephine’s office into the main hall. Cullen sighs before he follows, turns right towards the gardens and traipses up to Hawke’s room.

He realises when he knocks that he has never been here before, never been inside. He clears his throat and knocks.

“If that’s the maid with my dinner I expect you to be scantily clad this time,” Hawke calls. “I’ll hear no arguments about propriety, an ailing man deserves all the comforts he can get.”

“Well, at least I know you’re not in any grave danger,” Cullen says, letting himself in.

The room is small, dim, lit only by the small window beside the door. It’s sparsely decorated, but for the bed there is a small chest, a pile of books and against one wall two staffs – one Hawke’s, one unfamiliar –  and a greatsword.

Hawke grins at him from the bed. “If _you_ were scantily clad I’d be in no danger at all,” he says. He pats the bedspread beside him and Cullen is stepping inside, shutting the door behind him, crossing towards him when he notices something else on the bed with Hawke, something small and wriggling.

“Oh, yes,” Hawke says. “ _That._ ” He extends a hand and the dark shape unfolds to reveal itself to be a small black cat that shakes it’s head sleepily and presses it into Hawke’s palm affectionately. “Cole kept letting her in when I first arrived. He thought I was lonely and, as it turned out, she was up the duff so now I will never be rid of her.”

He doesn’t look particularly upset by this, Cullen notes.

“There’s three kittens somewhere around here,” Hawke goes on. “I’m calling the ginger one Aveline.”

Cullen laughs at that, holds out his own hand for the cat to sniff. He has never really been a cat person but he bears them no ill-will. The cat permits him to scratch her behind the ear. “I don’t think she’d thank you for that.”

“Maybe not,” Hawke agrees. “But she’s feisty. The kitten, I mean. Not Aveline. Aveline’s more terrifying.”

Cullen laughs again, slides an arm around Hawke’s shoulders to pull him close and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I thought you were dead,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Hawke sighs, tugs him down onto the bed with him. “You look tired,” he explains, pushing Cullen’s coat off of his shoulders. “Did you stop once on the ride back here?”

“Once or twice,” Cullen says. He’s still in his riding clothes as Hawke settles against him but the mattress is soft and the room is warm – warm enough that he considers caving to Hawke and his repeated suggestions to get the hole in his roof fixed.

Hawke hums. “And I suppose washing wasn’t at the top of your agenda because…?”

Cullen huffs, makes to sit up but Hawke grumbles and refuses to move off of him. “I’ve just got comfortable,” he says, throwing an arm across Cullen’s chest. “I lived on the run for years. I can put up with the smell.”

“Your bravery is commendable,” Cullen says, reaching an arm up to brush his fingers through Hawke’s hair. “What happened in the Temple?”

“A lot,” Hawke says after a few moments. “Didn’t the Inquisitor give you a rundown?”

“Not yet. Not entirely. We’ve mostly been talking of what is to come next.”

Hawke sighs. He is not fond of recounting what he sees as his failures. Varric has teased him about it often. “Corypheus knew I was there the second he set foot in the Temple. I thought with Lady Trevelyan there he might have forgotten about the time I killed him but apparently not. He sicced Samson on me. I think he might have had some lingering resentment too. It all worked out though. I mean, Trevelyan had to save me a few times but I think she was too distracted to keep count. At least I hope she was or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Cullen is quiet. He’s thinking of the Emprise, of Meredith, of Hawke saying _I don’t want anyone to be that important to me again._ He didn’t mean for this but Maker, he’s grateful. He’s glad.


	10. Chapter 10

He wakes with Hawke’s mouth around his cock. “ _Maker._ ”

He snakes a hand down, winds it through Hawke’s hair. Hawke hums appreciatively and Cullen tugs again, harder this time, insistently until Hawke rises to kiss him.

Hawke smiles against his mouth. “Morning Commander, sleep well?”

“I did. Until I was awoken, at any rate.”

Hawke laughs, rocks his hips against Cullen’s. “Surely it was quite a pleasant awakening though, yes?”

Cullen trails a hand down Hawke’s back to hold him still. “I have had worse,” he agrees.

Hawke reaches for the oil that rests on his bedside table, Cullen takes it from his hands and Hawke kisses him again, cups Cullen’s face with his calloused hands. It is warm and quiet in Hawke’s room. The bed is sturdier, creaks less, doesn’t hit the wall and knock dust and stone loose from the ceiling. Hawke’s moans are softer, swallowed mostly by Cullen’s mouth. Faint sounds drift up from the garden, voices, the breeze through the leaves.

 _Maker,_ Cullen is lost.

They are interrupted soon enough. Varric knocks on the door, calls, “Hawke! Is the Commander in there with you? Apparently he’s late for a meeting or something.”

Cullen jerks, pulled out of whatever reverie he had fallen into. “What time is it?” He asks, suddenly aware of just how bright the sunlight streaming through Hawke’s small window is.

“Not that late,” Hawke promises. “You looked peaceful for once so I thought I’d let you sleep.” He leans up, calls back to Varric, “He’s certainly in here _somewhere_!”

“Maker’s breath, Hawke! I don’t need to know _that_! Just send him along when you’re done. Fully clothed, please.”

Cullen shoves Hawke off of him and scrabbles for his clothes. Hawke makes an unhappy noise, rolls onto his stomach to watch Cullen dress. “You don’t have to go right _now._ I’m sure they can survive without you for five more minutes.”

“You should have woken me,” Cullen says, shrugging on his shirt. “There is still much to discuss about the Temple, about Corypheus.”

Hawke huffs childishly and Cullen softens, bends to press a kiss to his forehead before he goes. “I’ll see you later,” he promises.

“Whatever you say, _Commander,_ ” Hawke grumbles.

-

Cullen has the great misfortune to step out of Hawke’s room just as Madam Vivienne is exiting hers. She smiles at him, sweet on the surface, deadly beneath. She has known about he and Hawke since the Winter Palace, since before then, probably and Cullen has no idea how or why but he is certain Madam Vivienne is planning on using this knowledge for something nefarious.

“Good morning, Commander,” she greets, primly. “I trust you slept well. One would think it quite the improvement on your ramshackle little tower room. I hear from Sera there’s a hole in the roof. Has the Inquisitor refused to cover the repairs or is this some sort of odd templar ritual we have not been made aware of?”

“I slept fine, Madam de Fer,” Cullen says carefully. “And yourself?”

“I slept well, Commander, as always.” She casts her gaze across him, must find something she can use later because the corner of her mouth quirks upwards slightly. “Have a good meeting.”

She sweeps out onto her balcony as Cullen turns down the stairs to the main hall. Solas greets him vaguely as he passes through, Varric is mercifully absent from his usual spot. He makes his way to the War Room quickly, pauses just outside of it to straighten his coat and run fingers through his hair.

Trevelyan doesn’t look up when he enters, bent over the map, pouring over missives as she is. Leliana and Josephine both murmur greetings. She looks tired – Trevelyan – and she has looked tired since Haven, since the Breach but now she looks worn. Drained.

“Apologies,” he begins. “I was – ”

“It’s fine, Cullen,” Trevelyan cuts him off. “You deserved the rest and there is too much to discuss for apologies.”

“Right,” Cullen says stiffly. His cheeks feel slightly warm. Leliana and Josephine share a knowing look and he clears his throat. “To work, then?”

“To work,” Trevelyan agrees. “How soon until our soldiers will be back from the Arbor Wilds?”

“The bulk should arrive over the coming weeks. There are a few wounded that may take longer to transport and some of our troops have remained behind to gather supplies from the Wilds and investigate the Temple.”

Trevelyan nods wearily. “We will need them when Corypheus makes his next move. Morrigan thinks it will be soon.” She sighs, drops into her chair. “I’m sure Leliana can fill you in on the Well later. For now, it seems the Ancient Magister Darkspawn isn’t the only thing in Thedas demanding our attention.”

Cullen sighs. “It seems it will always be so.”

Trevelyan smiles humourlessly and pushes the first of the two missives she holds across the table towards him. “There has been an incident in the Deep Roads. A tremor, or something. Orzamar has requested aid.” She pushes the second one towards him as he lifts up the first. “We have also received word from Scout Harding in the Frostback Basin. She also requests our presence. Urgently.”

Cullen frowns as it lifts it up. “I thought we were only investigating the Basin at the behest of that irritating scholar?”

“We are,” Josephine confirms.

“But if _Scout Harding_ requests aid,” Leliana says.

“It must be urgent indeed,” Cullen finishes for her. He skims the second missive. It is short, nondescript but it is Harding’s hand no doubt. He lowers it, raises the first again. “The Deep Roads still seems more pressing. If our supply of lyrium is interrupted our mages will be useless. Templars too.”

“I agree,” Leliana says. “But if Corypheus _does_ make a move it will be far easier to get a message to and return from the Basin.”

Cullen hums. “I see the dilemma.”

He looks up to find Trevelyan smiling tiredly at him.

“This isn’t it, is it?”

She shakes her head, rocks back in her chair. “Blackwall has turned up.”

Cullen raises an eyebrow.

“He’s in Val Royeux. In a prison cell, in fact,” she says, lightly.

“Truly?” Cullen asks, looking about them. The grim expressions of Leliana and Josephine confirm it.

“Truly,” Trevelyan confirms. She has looked away now, fiddles with Josephine’s marker over the city. “I haven’t been in to see him but according to Vivienne he has been lying to us from the start about who he is.”

“His name is Thom Rainer,” Leliana says. “According to my sources, he was a General in the Orlesian army until he slaughtered a nobleman and his family and fled.”

Cullen is unprepared for the wave of disgust that breaks over him. He had not spent all that much time with Blackwall but he had always thought him a decent man and to impersonate a _Warden_ – It does not bare dwelling on.

“I want him here, Cullen,” Trevelyan says, voice low. “I want him brought to Skyhold. He pledged himself to this Inquisition. He should be judged by it.”

Cullen looks briefly to Josephine. “I’ll do what I can,” he promises.

-

Their meeting ends with the agreement that Trevelyan will go to the Basin, will send another party to the Deep Roads to investigate more fully and report back. Cullen is to focus on bringing Blackwall in for judgement – preferably before Trevelyan leaves – and wringing every last piece of viable information out of Samson, with Dagna’s supervision. Since the thought of Samson makes him think of the new scars on Hawke’s chest he decides to focus on Blackwall.

He has secured his release when Hawke swans in, perches on the edge of Cullen’s desk and sighs dramatically.

“Your Inquisitor is sending me to the Deep Roads,” he says. Cullen sets down his quill. “She’s making Varric go too so there’s that at least.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says. “I could – ”

Hawke snorts. “If you’re going to offer to speak with her on my behalf, please don’t. Wouldn’t do much for my fearsome reputation if I sent the Templar I’m bedding to fight my battles for me, would it?”

“I only meant,” Cullen starts. “Your injuries – ”

Hawke laughs. “Maker. You’re getting to be as bad as Varric. I know this will come as a shock to most people but I don’t need mothering. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Cullen looks at him.

“Alright,” Hawke amends. “I’m _sort of_ capable of looking after myself. I’m alive, aren’t I? And I’d like to point out that until you people started meddling in my life again nothing was actively trying to kill me.”

Cullen hums. “I don’t think that’s strictly true.”

Hawke grins and leans over to kiss him. “Anyway. Varric wants me to invite you to a game of Wicked Grace this evening. Sort of a _we survived but probably not for long_ celebration which I know you’re a big fan of.”

“I shouldn’t – ” Cullen starts to say but Hawke kisses him again. Kisses him gently. Softly, sweetly. Smiles against his mouth.

“Come on, Commander. I won’t take no for an answer. You can’t be _all_ work.”

“Now _you_ sound like Varric,” Cullen grumbles.

Hawke smirks. “Infectious little bastard, isn’t he?” He pushes himself off the desk. “So I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“I get the distinct impression that it doesn’t actually matter what I say,” Cullen says.

“Catch on quick, don’t you?” Hawke turns again to leave but pauses by the door, turns slowly back to Cullen. “Did you bring him back? Samson, I mean. I know the Inquisitor wanted you to question him.”

Cullen looks up at him, searches his face. Hawke gives away nothing. No hint of why he’s asking, of whether it’s revenge or fear or pity that has him curious. “Yes,” Cullen says. “He’s in the cells. I haven’t been to see him yet though.”

Hawke nods slowly, brings a hand up to scrub absently at his nose. It’s something he does when he’s nervous, Cullen’s noticed. Nervous or unsettled. “You should,” he says, eventually. “It would – ” He breaks off, shakes his head. “I’ll see you later.”

-

He doesn’t go to see Samson, instead he sends a message to the gaoler telling her to make sure the former Templar is ready for questioning in the morning and spends the rest of his day review troop movements and reports. As it grows dark he entertains the idea of not going, of remaining behind his desk and telling Hawke later that he forgot, that it slipped his mind but the words begin to blur on the pages before him and he finds himself standing, traipsing down the stairs.

The tavern is unusually empty for this hour – though with the bulk of their forces still in the Wilds perhaps it should not be so unexpected. Varric has arranged for several tables to be pushed together in the centre of the room and sits laughing with Hawke at the head of it. By the way they are leaning heavily on the table before them, it is obvious they have been drinking some time.

They are not alone, either. Bull is there and Josephine and Dorian and the Inquisitor, most interestingly Cassandra is present, along with that odd boy, Cole. He clears his throat to announce his presence, thinks to do it quickly before he loses his nerve.

“Curly!” Varric cries. “I knew you’d come.” He elbows Dorian. “You owe me three crowns, Sparkler.”

Dorian sighs at him, then at Hawke. “I suppose this is _your_ doing. I’ll have to take my revenge by wiping the floor with the both of you.”

Hawke grins at him, “Varric started it.” He pulls out the chair beside him. “Come on, Commander. We’ve been waiting. Sera’s already drunk herself under the table. Literally.”

-

The game does not go well, Cullen does not even make it out with his dignity left intact but Hawke is warm and laughing at his side and it somehow makes the prospect of walking across the courtyard stark naked a less harrowing prospect.

“You could at least lend me your jacket,” he says to Hawke as they shuffle out into the cool night air.

“And deprive the night guard of this glorious view? No chance.”

“Think of the children!” Sera calls from where she is being dragged up the stairs by Trevelyan and Josephine. Josephine shushes her, Trevelyan snickers, scolds, “ _Sera_!”

Hawke laughs too, falls against Cullen unsteadily. “Don’t worry,” he says. “There aren’t any children at Skyhold to traumatise. Except Morrigan’s boy.” He shudders. “There is something wrong with that child. Have you spoken to him? He’s terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.”

Cullen has not. Has only laid eyes on the boy just briefly.

“Not surprised, to be honest,” Hawke says as he pushes open the door to Cullen’s tower. “Her mother can turn into a dragon.”

Cullen starts. “What?”

Hawke laughs. “Never mind. After you, Commander,” he says, indicating the ladder.

Cullen rolls his eyes. “You do realise I won’t be able to face anyone within the Inquisition ever again, don’t you?”

He laughs again, softer this time, lays a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “Everyone at that table told you not to bet against the Ambassador.”

“You didn’t.” Cullen points out and he knows even without Hawke leant heavily against him, breath warm in his ear, egging him on, he would have still played that final game against Josephine. It is perhaps a flaw in his character, his inability to let things best him. His determination to win. It got him in endless trouble at the Circle Tower and the Gallows when he let it.

Hawke grins, makes an obscene expression. “ _I_ was very interested in seeing how far you’d let it go.” He takes a step towards Cullen, then another. Reaches out to pull Cullen close to him. “And let me say, you did not disappoint.”

Hawke kisses him and Cullen hums against his mouth, mutters, “It will take me weeks to negotiate my coat back.”

-

Cullen dreams of the Circle Tower, of the first failed Harrowing he attended. This time though, it is not a shy young elf that Irving leads into the room but Hawke. He is young, younger than Cullen has never known him. His hair is not as wild, there is no streak of blood or war paint across his freckled nose but it is him. There is no mistaking that smirk.

He does not look afraid. It was often so, Cullen recalls. Those mages who thought the Harrowing would be simple were often easily led astray by demons. Cullen thinks to warn him but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, his jaw is clamped shut. It wouldn’t matter anyway, Hawke’s eyes slide unseeing across him. He does not know Cullen here. Cullen is simply another Templar keeping him in chains.

It is all going well until Hawke begins whimpering. Begins mumbling nonsense under his breath.

Greagoir closes his eyes. Irving looks away, shakes his head.

“Stand ready,” Greagoir commands.

 _No,_ Cullen thinks. He can do this. He will come through. Maker knows he has come through worse. But he cannot make his mouth obey, cannot speak the words aloud. He starts to move forwards but Hawke jerks suddenly and he is ripped through with the Fade. White-blue light, blinding, burning.

When he opens his mouth, it is not Hawke’s voice that emanates around the room.

Cullen jerks awake to find Hawke shuddering against him. He pulls him close, runs fingers through his hair. “Shh, shh.”

“ _Fuck_ – ” Hawke mumbles when he wakes, face pressed to Cullen’s collarbone. “Fuck, _fuck._ ”

“You’re alright,” Cullen says. His hands are moving automatically, one running through Hawke’s hair, the other rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“Fuck – it’s the – I hate the fucking Deep Roads. I just – ” he breaks off. He is gripping Cullen so tightly it hurts.

“If you don’t want to – ” Cullen starts but then stops, amends, “At least you get to take Varric.”

Hawke laughs, sniffs. “Yeah. Yeah. He hates them too. We can both be miserable.”

Cullen presses a kiss to his forehead. “And I can pretend this all an elaborate vengeance scheme on my part for talking me into that game.”

Hawke laughs again, his grip relents a little.


	11. Chapter 11

He wakes early. Hawke has sprawled out across most of the bed. He sleeps on his front, mouth hanging open as he snores. He is to leave in an a hour or so with Varric and Bull so Cullen feels very little guilt for kicking him off the mattress.

Hawke wakes with a thud, a groan and a pathetic whine. “Cullen, did you do that? You wicked, _wicked_ man.”

Cullen smiles. “You’re supposed to be leaving soon and I could think of no other way to wake you.”

Hawke has sat up now, glares up at Cullen from his position on the floor. The ridiculous war paint he insists on wearing has smudged halfway across his face. “I could think of a few,” he grumbles.

Cullen helps him up, kisses him goodbye on the battlements. Both parties are already gathered below them. They are all to leave today, Hawke and his party to the Deep Roads, the Inquisitor and hers to the Frostback Basin. Cassandra, Sera and Dorian are remaining at Skyhold, Trevelyan has promised she will return to Skyhold as quickly as possible if Corypheus rears his ugly head again.

“I told you you would be late,” Cullen teases.

Hawke huffs. “Well rude awakenings certainly don’t help.”

Bull spots them and whistles. Trevelyan smiles, waves a hand in greeting.

Cullen smiles back, grasps Hawke’s wrist before he turns to go. “Come back to me safely,” he says and Hawke looks startled for a moment before his cheeks begin to colour. The same soft pink that the dawn has dusted the mountains.

He coughs as he pulls away. “Well, I’ll do my best. Darkspawn dependant, of course.”

Varric laughs as Hawke reaches them, says something too quiet for Cullen to hear that makes Hawke’s cheeks redder.

Cullen watches them ride out into the mountains before beginning his duties for the day. It is odd, he thinks, that he should feel so light. So settled as they teeter here on the brink of things that do not bare thinking of. He has not even considered what will happen when Corypheus strikes, what will come afterwards. For now he has letters to write, orders to disperse, movements to oversee.

He is drawn out of his musings by Dorian’s arrival. Of all of Trevelyan’s companions, Dorian has surprised him the most. “You ought to be careful,” he says, coming to stand beside Cullen. “Keep staring out into the distance all wistful and lovelorn like that and Varric will write a ghastly novel about the two of you. I can almost see it now. I trust there weren’t too many tears.”

“Some,” Cullen says. “Mostly on Hawke’s part. He’s not really a morning person.”

Dorian smirks. “I got that impression.” He turns so that he too is looking out over the mountains. “They’ll be alright. I mean, between the three of them they should be able to scrape together enough competence to hold down the fort until Maeve arrives to sort out whatever’s going on down there.”

-

She finds him in the gardens, in the little Chantry they have set up. She does not spend much time here – both the gardens and the chantry – she finds herself thinking she should as she crosses the lawn, the soft murmur of conversation drifting over her. Mother Giselle smiles at her, Morrigan’s odd child watches her from where he’s perched on a bench. He sits very still for a boy of his age. Maeve could never imagine being so well behaved at that age.

Cullen’s head is bowed as he murmurs his prayers. She should not be doing this here. Now. She would prefer not to do this at all but she has talked it over with Leliana and Josephine and they both agree the news should come from her. She fidgets with the hem of her tunic. She has not even told Sera yet.

“A prayer for yourself?” she asks.

Cullen does not jump when Maeve speaks so he must have heard her approach. “For those we lost,” he says, lighting a final candle before standing. “And for those we may still lose.” He smiles at her weakly. He has looked better – healthier – since Hawke arrived, returned. Cassandra may not approve but even she admits Hawke has helped him through the last throes of his lyrium withdrawal.

“Hawke?” she asks without really meaning to.

He tilts his head, frowns before smiling once more. “Perhaps. Others too. I did not get word you had returned.”

“It was not long ago.” She has begun to wring her hands. Andraste, she has delivered judgements, condemnations, but this has tied her tongue and Cullen has not missed it. He studies her closely, concern growing in his gaze.

“Is something wrong? What was it Harding required assistance with?”

“I – We – ” Words fail her. She sighs. “It would be easier to show you.”

All vestiges of calm vanish from Cullen’s face.

-

He is silent as Maeve leads him to the cells. She does not look back, knows he is following by the sound of his heavy footfalls. He draws in a sharp breath as Maeve comes to a halt before the wooden door that leads down to the prison. He does not frequent the cells, none of them do, empty as they have been for the majority of their time here. They are empty again now; Samson is in the Forge with Dagna, Blackwall has been taken elsewhere.

The smell of damp greets them as she unlocks the door, pulls it open. Cullen looks at her warily as they begin to descend the stairs. What he thinks awaits him down there, Maeve can only guess.

Leliana waits for them below, hands folded neatly behind her back. “Commander,” she greets. “Have you been informed of the identity of our newest prisoner?”

Cullen shakes his head. Leliana raises a brow, looks to Maeve.

“He’s in the first cell to the left,” Maeve says, defeated.

Cullen hesitates before stepping towards the cells. Maeve follows.

They fed him on their long journey back from the Basin. Provided him with new robes, bathing water, but still, he cuts a pitiful figure in the dark, cramped little cell. The Inquisition robes they have provided him with hang off his frail form. He stands, brushes dirty-blonde hair out of his eyes. “Knight-Captain,” he greets before catching himself. “Though I suppose that is not your title here.”

Cullen’s breath hitches. His hand goes automatically to the hilt of his blade but he does not draw it.

“ _You_ ,” he says, breathes. He swallows, does not take his eyes off of Anders as he speaks. “Inquisitor, where did you find this _thing_?” His voice is pulled taut. Quiet, angry.

Leliana steps forwards, voice steely. “That _thing,_ Commander, may yet prove a useful asset.” There is more she wants to say, Maeve knows, has learnt to read that in her Spymaster at least.

“You both know what he did, what he caused.” Cullen’s hand shakes where it rests on his blade. “He should stand trial. He should face justice for the lives he took that day, for those he has taken since. He is an abomination, Inquisitor. He should not be allowed to live.”

In his cell Anders laughs drearily. “If you only knew the half of it,” he says, shakes his head. “I won’t fight you, Commander. Do what you will with me.”

Even knowing what he has done, what his actions have inspired across Thedas, Maeve cannot help the slight ache in her chest. As they walked, Cole rambled, hands slack on the reigns of his mount, eyes far away. He talked of Anders as he was. Anders in Kirkwall, Anders in the tower, Anders in between.

Maeve reaches out to grasp Cullen’s arm. He jerks at her touch.

“We should not discuss this here,” she says.

-

In the War Room, Cullen leans heavily against the back of his chair. “I do not understand why you brought him here, Inquisitor.”

Truly, Maeve does not know either. She supposes they could have left him in the Basin, Harding returned with them but there were many able-bodied soldiers remaining who could have ensured he stayed out of trouble.

“Harding found him out there. He had been skulking around the Inquisition encampment for some time, apparently. She recognised him when they managed to catch him. That’s what she wanted assistance with,” She folds her arms. “Would you have preferred I left him out there unattended?”

Cullen sighs. “No.” He passes a hand across his eyes. “ _Maker_.” She wonders if he is thinking of Hawke. If he has thought about Hawke yet at all in his rage. They need not decide Anders fate today but they must establish some sort of strategy. Whatever he may have been to her companions, he is still the mage that destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry. They already shelter the Champion and it has not been a decision widely celebrated by their allies. To add Anders on to their apostate quota could be disastrous.

She sits down while they wait for Cassandra and her other advisors to arrive, watches Cullen massage his temples. “He did not even want us to bring him here,” she says, quietly. She does not know whether it will be a comfort to him, does not know if it is a comfort to her. “He does not seem to want much of anything.”

Cullen looks up at her, expression unreadable. “Cassandra will support me,” is all he says.

-

They come to no agreement on the abomination’s fate, only that his presence at Skyhold is to be kept a closely guarded secret. Though he is kept chained far from Cullen’s office, he is acutely aware of the man’s presence, an old wound reopened, festering in the depths of their Keep.

 _He believes he is dying,_ Trevelyan had said, voice carefully level, meeting each of their eyes in turn.

 _He should have died long ago,_ Cullen had spat. He had not meant to, his thoughts had been across the Waking Sea, two years ago picking through rubble for identifiable remains, trying to calm the city as it threatened to wrench apart, to overboil. Cassandra had supported him. Afterall, she had been there in the aftermath.

Josephine and Leliana had been unimpressed. Josephine he understands, she has always been rather soft-hearted, ever the peacekeeper. She points out it was Kirkwall he ruined so it should be Kirkwall who should pass judgement. As for Leliana he cannot guess what she has in mind for Anders, why she counsels restraint. Neither of them had thrown Hawke in his face though he knows they could have. Should have, possibly. He had tried not to think of Hawke as they argued. Of they way he had murmured the man over and over in the Emprise. Of the cold metal band on his left hand.

With a huff, Cullen gives up on any hope of trying to go back to his work. Crosses to the window. Paces.

 _You say he did not wish to be here, Inquisitor, yet he was lurking around Inquisition camps, was he not?_ Cassandra had demanded.

Trevelyan had looked at Cullen before she spoke. _He wouldn’t say._

His feet carry him to the cells though he knows it is an ill thought out idea. Instead of the usual guard, Leliana has appointed Charter to watch over the prisoner. Charter does not look pleased but that does not mean she will not report Cullen’s visit to her master.

“I require a moment alone to speak with the prisoner,” Cullen says.

Charter does not argue, only reminds Cullen no harm is to come to Anders without the explicit say so of the Inquisitor. It should sting that she feels the need to tell him that but he is too lost in the dark void in his mind to think of much else.

Anders sits in the corner of his cell, looks up when Cullen approaches. “Commander,” he greets.

“What were you doing out there?” Cullen demands. “What are your plans for the Inquisition?”

Anders shakes his head tiredly. “I keep telling you people I have no plans. I didn’t want – ” He hisses suddenly as if in pain, blue fade-light rips through him momentarily and Cullen leaps back from the bars, draws his sword and drops into a defensive stance. Anders does not attack though, only shakes, seizes until the blue light begins to seep away.

“ _Maker,_ ” he hisses through gritted teeth, brushes his hair back with shaking hands. He eyes Cullen’s blade. “You won’t be needing that, Commander, I assure you. I can hardly – ” He breaks off again. The blue light is more contained this time, only splinters along his arm. He clenches his fist. “You see, you’ll have your wish soon. Your Inquisitor’s elven friend says Justice is beginning to degrade my body. It’s fascinating, apparently. But he’s also very sorry he can’t do anything for me. He’s offered to look into it though.”

Cullen narrows his eyes. He feels no sorrow for this man, this creature. He does not sheath his blade. “You did not answer my question.”

He can see the mechanisms behind the abomination’s eyes whir, click. It only serves to fuel his suspicions. This man must be here to turn their mages against them, to make a frantic grab for power, to steal Hawke away back to a life on the road full of sleepless nights and hollow fears. But Anders does not sneer, does not look away. Instead, he sighs miserably.

“I heard Lark had joined the Inquisition. I wanted to…” he trails off, his meaning clear.

Cullen steps back from the bars. _You lost that right,_ he wants to say. _I will not allow it. You will not poison his mind further._

Anders watches him closely, tilts his head. Cullen wonders if he knows. If he suspects. He tells himself he cannot, who would tell him, after all?

As he leaves he tells Charter to watch him closely, there is something the man is not telling them. Charter does not roll her eyes though he suspects she wants to. Of course there is something he is not telling them. That is why Charter has been assigned to him after all. 

Cullen returns to his office to find a messenger from Leliana requesting his presence. He ascends to the rookery slowly, recalls being summoned here months ago following Hawke’s arrival. Leliana stands before her small shrine, she has dismissed her agents. “We have been speaking, Commander,” she says. “And we all agree that for the time being, it would not be wise to inform Hawke of Anders presence here. There are bigger things we have to worry about and it would only be a distraction.”

Cullen exhales. Hawke has yet to return from the Deep Roads, even if he had Cullen would not know how to tell him. Trevelyan will leave to join him in a week, they have sent a message about darkspawn and something bigger, something deeper.

“You understand?” Leliana asks, turning to face him. There is something soft in her gaze, he thinks.

He nods his head. “I do.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up for anyone who's still reading this there are no healthy relationships to be found here! yet, anyway


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been battling major writers block lately so i'm working it out on this fic 
> 
>  
> 
> for all four of you reading :D

Dorian paces back and forth before Cullen’s desk. It is snowing outside; Cullen’s office does little to keep out the chill. Dorian has already made his thoughts on this known. Cullen has pointed out there is nothing keeping him here several times. Dorian only scoffs, shakes his head.  

“Just tell me,” he says, coming to a halt. “That you at least won’t be going along with this ridiculous ploy of theirs.”

Cullen looks up at him. He has been trying to write this letter for the majority of the morning; another of their soldiers has succumbed on the journey back from the Arbor Wilds, a young man from Starkhaven, one of Rylen’s. His wounds had been healing well but they were made by a red templar’s blade and there was more than one kind of infection to worry about. He had begged for it in the end, Cullen has been told.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can see the merit in not advertising to the world at large we have the man who blew up half of Kirkwall in custody, but keeping this from Hawke, from Varric – ” he breaks off.

How he found out about Anders presence here, Cullen has no idea. Certainly, Leliana and Josephine would not tell him, Solas would not either Cullen suspects, so it must have been Cole. The boy has been through Cullen’s office often enough waxing poetic about Anders’ inner most thoughts and feelings. If he were not so spectacularly unmemorable to everyone else in Skyhold there would be no secrets kept at all.

“It is not my decision to make,” Cullen says. The words are heavy in his mouth, in his mind. He has said them over and over to himself until they no longer sound real.

“Bullshit,” Dorian says.

Cullen sets down his quill.

Dorian leans forward, palms resting on the desk between them. He leans in close. There’s anger in his eyes, yes, but also something akin to disappointment. “Come on, Commander. This isn’t the kind of secret you should keep from the man you’re currently bedding.”

There is something in the way he says it that irks him. Perhaps it’s the _currently,_ the notion that Hawke is one in a long line of – what? Mages that Cullen has bent to his will? But no, Dorian does not think of him that way, he is certain so maybe it’s just the idea that this will end. That this is just temporary. Cullen drops his gaze.

“It is – ” he pauses, searches for the correct way to phrase it. “More _complicated_ than that.”

Dorian snorts, steps away from the desk. “Yes, yes. Your Spymaster has taken great pains to explain that to me, even used small words. _Hawke is a vital part of our team. It would be distracting. It would be damaging. He’s too **fragile**_ – ” He shakes his head, turns back to Cullen. “Did you ever stop to consider that it might be just as damaging for him to learn that _you_ – someone he is at least passably fond of – kept this from him?”

Cullen closes his eyes. Yes. He has. Often, in fact. He weighs it up against telling him the moment he returns to Skyhold, about watching him stride down to the cells and demanding Cullen let Anders out. Demanding he let them leave. In the Emprise, after Hawke’s fall, he’d caught Varric watching him, something like pity in his eyes. _I get it, Curly – no really, I do,_ he had said. _He’s a broken birdy and you want to fix him to make up for whatever shit you’ve done to mages in the past and I don’t know, hell, maybe you’ve got a shot. But – and I hate to be the one telling you this – if Blondie ever makes his way back to us, Hawke won’t hesitate._

He can’t say that though, can’t admit to it so instead he says: “Why are you so fixated on this?”

And Dorian rolls his eyes. “Because for Maker knows what reason I have come to think of the both of you as friends, perhaps him a little more so than you but what can I say? You’re starting to grow on me and you’ve been infinitely more bearable since Hawke arrived.”

Cullen sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

Dorian smiles. “I’m sure you won’t disappoint.”

-

They hear Hawke’s laughter ringing through the tunnels long before they come across them. Sera makes a face, shakes her head only half fondly. Mutters, “He’s a nut, that one.”

Lady Vivienne looks markedly less enamoured. “Yes. Let us hope he has not finally cracked.” She has made it clear on a number of occasions that she is not fond of Hawke, of his presence within the Inquisition but then she seems not to like anyone at Skyhold. Why she is still here is anyone’s guess. She sticks close anyway, as they traipse through the Deep Roads, upper lip curled in displeasure.

Blackwall – rather, the man they knew as Blackwall – walks ahead of them, quiet, subdued. Maeve herself insisted on bringing him with them though they know he holds no real advantage over the darkspawn than the rest of them. Cassandra had warned against it, Cullen too but just because Blackwall is no true grey warden does not mean he doesn’t have the most experience of all of them down here.

This of course has all been made moot by the fact that Bull’s team and the Legion seem to have made quick work of most of what’s lurking down here so far. The most they have come across so far are spiders sent skittering by the frequent tremors.

“Lights up ahead,” Blackwall says.

Bull, Hawke and Varric are camped out beside the ancient elevator they reported. They have been awaiting Maeve’s arrival before proceeding. She has thought long and hard about this. It is a risk to be away from Skyhold with Corypheus still out there but they cannot risk the disruption to their lyrium supply lines any longer.

It is Varric that spots them first, glances back over his shoulder and calls out, “Inquisitor! We were starting to think you’d sent us down here just to cut us loose!”

Hawke is beside him, the two of them red cheeked and bright eyed. Dwarven ale, she imagines. Bull’s smile to her is wry. It is more difficult to smile than Maeve had thought it would be. It is not just Corypheus looming over them, after all.

-

“It is absolutely ridiculous,” Cassandra says as she paces. “That _thing_ should be punished.”

“I agree,” Cullen says. They are in the war room, just the two of them. There is no point to this, they both know. There will be no decisions made until Trevelyan returns from the Deep Roads.

“There must be a reason he came to us now. It cannot be coincidence.” She looks to Cullen, gaze hard. She is not permitted to see the Abomination. Trevelyan has left instructions that only he and Solas be allowed down to the cells.

Cullen visits him once a day as Trevelyan bade. He does not linger. Cassandra is annoyed by this, wants him to interrogate him, to pluck answers from thin air. “He is sticking to his story,” Cullen says. He keeps his voice even. “He says he has no plan.”

Cassandra scoffs. “And you believe him?”

Cullen exhales. It would be easier to deal with him now, before Hawke returned. Ship him off to Kirkwall, to Sebastian Vael in Starkhaven, to the Spire, to the Aeonar – to somewhere, anywhere but here. Hawke would never need know.

“Precisely,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head. “Leliana says he is also a warden. We already know Corypheas is able to influence their minds. If he is planning something, we must be ready.”

There is a knock at the door before Cullen can reply. A soldier requests Cassandra’s presence. After she leaves Cullen lingers a few moments. He leans on the great wooden table, stares down at the little marker on the map over Kirkwall. There had been a templar there when he first arrived, a man on the edges of lyrium madness who had shuffled about the Gallows in the care of various Knights until Meredith decided he was too much of a liability. Ellis, Cullen thinks his name had been. Before he was cast out he had grasped Cullen’s wrist tight around his gauntlet and leant in close to tell him there was no use in running. Things always caught up with you in the end.

He traipses out of the war room, dead weight in his chest. There is so much to do but it feels as though everything has been ground to a halt as they wait. Wait for Hawke to return from the Deep Roads. Wait for Trevelyan. Wait for Corypheus to show himself once more. Wait for their forces. Wait, wait, wait. Cullen is sick with it.

He crosses the main hall and turns down the stairs to the Undercroft. At least here there is something he does not need to wait for.

Dagna’s voice carries up to him when he pushes open the door, bright and cheery as always. Harrit has vacated for the day, Cullen spotted him earlier crossing towards the small forge. He only makes his escapes early on days when Samson is feeling particularly irksome. He must hear Cullen on the stairs because he laughs through his broken teeth.

“And here he comes. The _Commander._ You’ve got no idea, dwarf. The things I could tell you about him would make even your pretty toes curl.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” Dagna says. “Morning, Commander! Our guest’s feeling particularly chipper today. I’ve given him half a dose, taken some bloods. It’s actually looking promising – ” she goes on as Cullen steps into the croft. She’s trying to find out more about how red lyrium works, how it infects, whether it can be reversed.

Cullen cannot even pretend he is here for any such noble reasons. The useful intel Samson has had to give them has long dried up. Cullen is just here spoiling for a fight and Samson does not disappoint. They are a few minutes in, Cullen is helping Dagna by letting her bounce ideas off of him, fetching her various tools and implements that she mostly calls _the-graspy-things-with-the- yeah! That one!_ And so forth. Samson is leant forwards in his cage, eyes yellowing and bloodshot.

“So, is it true then?” he says. His face is still bruised from the last time he mouthed off and Cullen saw red but still, he sneers, smirks. Cullen pauses, looks at him wearily.

“You and the Champion,” Samson goes on. “Making nice. Shaking up. Your little friend here goes on about it. Thinks it’s dead sweet.” He laughs. “Always knew you had a soft spot for him. Can’t say I’m all that surprised. Boy was a damn good lay. Pretty eyes too.”

Dagna sighs.

-

Later, Cullen flexes his fingers beneath his gloves. His knuckles sting, bruising up nicely already. Night is falling as he makes his way out of his office again, crosses the courtyard towards the cells. Charter sighs at him when he appears, says nothing as she ascends the stairs behind him. She is tired of this too, Cullen knows. Overheard her complaining to another of Leliana’s scouts about wasting her time.

He finds Cole down there, crouched by the bars as he often is. Anders is at the far end of the cell, pressed against the wall. Cole unsettles him, it surprised Cullen when he first found out and it surprises him still.

“You are not supposed to be down here.”

Cole does not look up, tilts his head instead in Cullen’s vague direction. “I go where people need me,” he says. “I was trying to help but I couldn’t. Not alone.”

He stands then and vanishes.

In the cell, Anders breathes out and Cullen becomes aware of a soft mewling noise.

“He brought it down,” Anders says, running a thumb along the back of the kitten in his lap. “I told him not to. It’s not fair on it to be stuck down here with me while its family is upstairs. Will you take it back up with you?”

He moves then, stands unsteadily, cradles the kitten to his chest. _Hawke’s kitten_ , his mind insists. In Kirkwall Hawke had a mabari, Varric had said Hawke didn’t much care for cats but _Blondie_ had so Hawke keeping the kittens around was sweet, or something.

Anders cannot know they are Hawke’s, he tells himself, though Cole may have told him. Cole may have told him many things but they will remain unspoken.

Anders doesn’t hold the kitten out, just settles himself by the bars with the little creature in his lap. He scratches his ears as it purrs, looks up at Cullen expectantly. He still looks worn and thin. Solas says he is unlikely to pose much of a threat with his body tearing itself apart but Cullen is not so sure. In Kirkwall he did not look like the monster he would become, why should he here?

He holds out his hand for the kitten. Anders lowers it down slowly into Cullen’s palm, hushes it when it mewls it’s discontent. “Sorry little one,” he says. “But you’ll be much happier back up there with your brothers and sisters. Trust me. It’s no fun down – ” he breaks off as his body shudders, ripples blue.

Cullen waits for him to ride it out, raises the kitten to his chest to hold it securely. It nuzzles into the fur of his coat.

When Anders is finished he is gasping, trembling.

“What are your plans for the Inquisition?” Cullen asks, as he has asked each day before.

Anders laughs at him, breathlessly. Sometimes he is angry. Sometimes he is annoyed. Sometimes he is sad. Today he laughs, shakes his head. “Today, Commander? Dying, I suppose. Coulda picked a nicer spot though.”

He finds Cole waiting for him at the top of the stairs to the courtyard, crouched down, picking at the frost-stiffened grass. “He would be happy if you told him,” he says, without looking at Cullen. “Not at first but eventually. It would make it easier to know he was not leaving him alone.”

Cullen pretends it is someone else in the courtyard he is speaking of.

-

He returns the kitten to Hawke’s room but does not linger, traipses back to his office instead. He has not slept well since Hawke’s departure. Has never noticed the cold so keenly before.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little short today for um, dramatic effect

Trevelyan’s party must return from the Deep Roads at some point during the night because Cullen wakes to Hawke curled around him at the first light of dawn. Cullen takes great pains not to wake him as he shifts, lies on his side a moment watching him sleep.  He looks worn out, dark circles beneath his eyes but he looks intact, at least. There are no bandages on his arms, across his chest.

It is a good few moments before he recalls the man still lingering in the dungeons, before the cold dread creeps back into his chest, coils into a hard lump behind his ribs. Hawke’s eyes move behind their lids, he frowns slightly and Cullen brushes a thumb across his cheekbone to soothe it away.

When he wakes, Cullen will have to tell him. When he wakes, this will all come crashing down about them.

When he wakes. When he wakes.

-

He leaves Hawke sleeping. Rises at his usual hour and dresses, crosses the courtyard to the main castle before taking his breakfast. He has promised Dagna he will assist her in constructing a new piece of equipment sent from Kinloch while Harrit visits his family in Redcliffe. She is very excited about it as she is very excited about all things, wanted it working first thing in the morning to assist her in some new idea she has about red lyrium.

Cullen thinks to set it up before she wakes, escape so she does not have a chance to corner him and talk his ear off. He had a busy day ahead of him before Trevelyan’s return and he has never had the heart to cut Dagna off once she has begun but he is out of luck, it seems. Soft voices drift up to greet him when he opens the heavy wood door to the Undercroft, Dagna and another. It is not all that unusual for Dagna to be up at this hour but he does not think to see the Inquisitor so soon after she returned.

It is obvious she has not been to bed yet. Her hair has been stuffed into a messy bun atop her head but curls have worked their way free here and there and her eyes are soft and tired. She smiles when Cullen appears, reaches up with her unmarked hand to smooth back her hair a little. “Commander,” she greets, her voice slightly rough.

“Inquisitor, shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I will,” she promises, smiles fondly though it does not quite meet her eyes. “I felt too restless to sleep. We learnt so much in the Deep Roads.” She raises her hand again to rub at her eyes. She looks as though she has not slept at all since the Temple.

“She’s telling me all about it,” Dagna says, her eyes that too bright that means she will likely not sleep for a week. “This is all so exciting, she’s brought back all this – look at these! I’ve never seen anything like them!”

On her table are spread a number of weapons, blades and maces and axes. Cullen glances at them, sees nothing untoward but Dagna’s hands flutter about them, turning them this way and that, smoothing over edges. She will produce a report at some point, he assumes. Much of it will be unintelligible but the bits that are will be illuminating.

Trevelyan yawns.

“Come,” Cullen says. “I’ll walk up with you.”

She does not argue, steps ahead of him up the stairs. Cullen turns to tell Dagna he will return shortly to assist her with the equipment but she is still engrossed in the weapons, in the stack of papers Cullen imagines to be Trevelyan’s reports on her desk.

“I trust everything here was quiet?” Trevelyan asks as they ascend.

Cullen nods. “More or less. And you?”

She lets out a small huff of laughter. “Leliana has my reports. I assume you’ll be given copies. I think it’s something we will have to discuss more after we deal with Corypheus.”

They have reached the door to Trevelyan’s chambers now. She leans against it, folds her arms across her chest. He knows what she is about to ask. “Anders?”

“Still secure. Solas has been studying his condition. He seems more stable now but I do not know if Solas has made any progress.”

She nods, gaze dropping. She rubs at her shoulders as though she is cold, catches her bottom lip between her teeth. “It seems,” she starts, suddenly, but breaks off, shakes her head. “ _Unjust_ to keep it from him.”

 _Unjust,_ Cullen thinks. An odd choice of words but then he follows Trevelyan’s gaze, sees it has landed on the chair she must sit in the pass judgement. Perhaps that is her plan for him eventually. They will all gather in the hall as Anders is brought before her in chains. Hawke will have to be chained too, he thinks. He will not sit idly by while they pass judgement on his –

“You know him well,” Trevelyan says. “Do you think – Should we – ?” she puts a hand to her forehead, smooths back her hair.

 _Unjust._ Yes, it is unjust to keep it from him and Cullen is selfish for wishing it so though he can pile on excuses – Leliana will have his head if he does not keep the secret, it will distract Hawke from their end goal, distract them all.

“I don’t know,” he says, finally.

Trevelyan’s gaze skirts across him. He thinks he catches disappointment there. She wanted him to say _yes._ Yes, it is unjust. Yes, we should tell him. He thinks of her in the Deep Roads, smiling and strained as she speaks to Hawke, to Varric. She is fond of them both, would not want to keep this from them so Cullen amends his answer, adds, “I do not know how we will keep him a secret for much longer though.”

Trevelyan nods. “I agree,” she rubs at her eye, sleepily. “We’ll talk it over later, Commander.”

Cullen watches her go, thinks she will probably feel differently after she’s slept.

-

Hawke is still asleep when Cullen returns to his office, his snores are proof enough of that. They are not so loud that Cullen cannot work; in fact, he finds them something of a comfort as he reads through Trevelyan’s reports, as he writes the necessary letters and signs the documents Josephine has prepared to reinstate their lyrium supply lines. Dorian passes through at some point, either on his way to or from Bull’s room and affixes him with a very meaningful look. It is nothing compared to the looks Leliana’s people give him as they enter.

When Hawke awakes, Cullen ignores them both.

He does not tell Hawke of the man they are holding in the cells.

He does not tell Hawke to stay away from them or that Cole has had a funny turn, has started speaking far more in vague riddles that no one can really understand.

He does nothing. Maker forgive him, he does nothing and he cannot pretend it is a difficult decision. He lets the pieces fall, lets Hawke slide down the ladder elegantly in the late afternoon, saunter across Cullen’s office to smirk and ask how much Cullen has missed him.

“I’d hardly noticed you were gone,” Cullen says, setting down his quill.

Hawke cups his chin. “Liar,” he says. “I’ll ask Dorian. I bet he’ll tell me you were a blubbering wreck the whole time I was gone.”

“He would probably tell you that whether or not it was true,” Cullen points out.

“Maybe,” Hawke agrees. He kisses Cullen then and this, Cullen thinks, _this_ is why he says nothing. Why he intends to say nothing. For as long as Skyhold’s cells remain dark and unopened, he gets to have this. But – But –

His mind replays Dorian’s words. _Think of what you are doing to him._

So, he draws back, can’t help it. “I know you’ve just returned but I have a lot of work to do.”

Hawke laughs so hard he almost falls off of the desk where he’s perched. “And they say romance is _dead_.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says. “The reports from the Deep Roads – ”

“It’s fine,” Hawke says. He’s smiling, his deep blue eyes are warm. It would be worth it, he thinks, to keep this secret. He could have this a little longer. “It’s not like I didn’t know who I was coming back to. You better make this up to me later, though.”

“I will,” Cullen promises. When Hawke goes to pull away he grasps him by the wrist, tugs him back to kiss once more. He’s selfish. So selfish. “I will,” he says again, Hawke laughs again.

“I’m sure you won’t disappoint, Commander.”

-

Cullen spends the rest of the day with his breath held, jerking upright each time one of the door opens, never truly breathing out until the visitor’s piece has been spoken and even then, only partially. He is waiting for someone to come running, for some great commotion from the courtyard below.

He has seen Hawke angry before. Has seen him furious. When this is revealed, it will not be pretty.

And he will be complicit.

He closes his eyes, thinks to pray but the words do not come.

With each passing moment, he knows, this wound grows sour beneath the skin. Festers. Better to tear the scab off now before it reaches the bone but then he thinks of Hawke smirking at him, of waking beside him this morning after so long without and thinks, _I am not ready for this to be over._

_I only want a little longer._

The Maker it seems, has not heard his pleas. Else, He has heard and seen them for what they are and judged accordingly.

It is Dorian that summons him. Though if he had not, Cullen would surely have been summoned by the racket that followed.

“You should come,” is all Dorian says. “This may get rather unpleasant.”


End file.
